Lamb to Slaughter
by Lasgalendil
Summary: "All things must die," her father said. "There is a time for kindness, and a time for killing." In the Games, that line is blurred. Can killing, in itself, be an act of kindness? Or is Petra now so immune to cruelty that she can't tell the difference? Pre-THG, a Tribute from 6 must learn the true cost of living in a society that values entertainment and excess more than life.
1. Chapter 1

**AN: This fic is for Irish Luck, whose willingness to try her hand at non-linear storytelling (and the Hunger Games Universe) has challenged me to try something different as well. **

**This fic is rated T for violence and language.**

* * *

><p><strong>The Reaping<strong>

It's over. It's done.

It's been long in coming. A fucking relief, actually, now that it's here and done. You spend 6 years of your life wondering each Reaping Day if it'll be your turn….and finally it is.

My name is Petra Angelovna. I am about to die

No more waiting. No more worrying. No more hand-wringing and dilly-dally. This is it: you're going to die. You could live to a hundred and still worry about the end. I pity them that do.

Eighteen. Not surprised. The odds weren't in my favor. My name's down at least six times, and then there's the tesserae on top of that. It's only fitting that the same foodstuffs and medicines that saved our lives should cost me in the end. Life has a poetic justice to it. Kill yourself or go mad are the only options any of us have to escape its firm reality. There's subservience, too, but it's only another form of madness when you get right down to it. Like all these people watching me ascend the platform, heads bowed in solemnity and acceptance of the State. There's a moment of silence for me, sure; but every parent is breathing a sign of relief their daughter wasn't chosen, and every girl from twelve to eighteen is secretly grateful it wasn't her. I would know: I've done my share of Reaping Days.

At least one way or another, this will be my last.

I take it calmly. Ignore the cameras. Viewers want a fight, festivity, rejoicing, at least for the Careers. They're probably cheering and chanting the volunteers on in Districts 1,2, and 4. Not here. Not in 6. It's a shitty hand to be dealt, but I'll take it. No one can make me celebrate it.

"Petra Angelovna!" Victor Victor Ivan Klerkov congratulates me, as the mixed vapor of grain alcohol fumes and what must be perfume roll over me. He reeks of money and whores. Klerkov's hand is flabby and soft in my palm—a lifetime in the Victor's Village will do that to a man. "You were just selected to represent Distric 6 for the Hunger Games. How do you feel?"

_Same as you did your Reaping Day,_ I say. _Scared shitless_. "Resigned."

They draw the next 'contestant.' Sure. Like it's an honor or election or a _choice. _I half hope it's someone from the labor camps-strong, stoic, a potential partner…but he might turn on me, so I find myself wishing it's some starveling who won't pose a threat instead. Either way I don't want to look, don't want to know. But the cameras are here, the crowd is gathered, and I'm forced to look at the huddled mass of males before me and stare into the face of the man I must be willing to kill.

_I will,_ I tell the crowd. _Damn well count on it. I want to live_. Then I realize I'm already playing the Game. Their Game. I'm Petra Angelovna. I was Reaped not moments ago and already I'm a cold-blooded killer.

Klerkov unfolds the paper with relish, and booms the words cheerfully to the mike just as he did mine not moments before: "Xavier Malcovitch!"

No one's prepared for it. Not even me.

"NO!" A woman wails. "NO! Not my baby not my baby please, please not my baby-"

The cameras pan to see him. Maybe he'll make the Capitol vids tonight, maybe he won't. But his mother just signed his death certificate as sure as the State. You can't afford to be seen as weak, fragile, childish...not if you want to live. I strain my neck, but even on the assembled screens surrounding the stage I can't make my opponent out through the crowd.

"No please, take me, take me instead, not my baby NOT MY BABY-!" Game Authorities pour into the crowd to drag Malcovitch forward. They're beating her off but still she clings, and it takes them nearly a minute to cow her into submission. Ordinarily I'd cheer for her; today, I'm just disgusted. All the cameras are set, all eyes are turned, but still he's invisible in that sea of bodies.

The Uniforms break through. A hush falls through the masses as the cameras catch view. A cold, sharp blade passes into my heart. Even Victor Victor Klerkov has nothing to say.

Xavier Malcovitch isn't a man. He's a little boy who knows he's about to die.

* * *

><p>We're dead.<p>

…and _fucked._

Our Victor is a drunken fop, our District is a squalid den of poverty, and our champions are an ugly woman and a little boy who just pissed himself for the world to see. There will be no sponsors, no help, no mercy, no consolation prizes. _Petra Angelovna, you're on your own._

"Hello there, young man," Klerkov tries to alter the somber mood with a cheery smile and peppy tone as he bends to ruffle Malcovitch's dark curls. He fails. Noticeably. "You were just selected for the Hunger Games! How do you feel?"

Xavier Malcovitch's tear-streaked face fills the screens. Bubbles of clear, viscous snot dribble down his chin. He whimpers.

…We're dead. And fucked. _Totally fucked._

* * *

><p>They come to say goodbye, of course. I watched the games for eighteen years—I wouldn't've expected any less. It's family first. It always is. I understand now it's more for the family than the Reaped.<p>

I want nothing more than a moment of solitude. Reflection. They just want a chance to say goodbye.

"Oh, Petra-" mother begins, but I cut them off. They'll make it teary, grief-laden, complicated. They'll draw it out, dig the knife in deeper. I have to make it short. Have to tell them goodbye.

I was dead the moment Victor Klerkov drew my name. They have to understand that. "I love you very much." I tell her. Tell both of them. "And I know you love me."

"No tears, eh?" My father asks. "No crying? I tell you we named her well: Petra. The Stone-heart. You're a rock." He grips my shoulders firmly. "You're aren't soft, not like a woman should be. At times I think this is cruel, now I am not so certain. You are Petra. My Petra." He kisses me. "Rocks can't feel," he whispers into my ear. "Rocks can't die."

_Rocks can't feel. Rocks can't die._

"Petra-" my mother clings to me. She struggles for words to say. There aren't any. She is soft, timid, beautiful. _Zaychik,_ my father calls her, _bunny_. I am Petra, the Rock. All my life she's believed she's failed me.

Perhaps she has.

"I'll be alright, mother." I kiss her forehead the way father kissed mine. She's fragile, tender. The gesture is meaningless to me, but she'll treasure it. I am the last of her children left, the only one who survived long enough to make the Reapings. I am my father's Rock, the Stone-heart, with the strength her other five children so piteously lacked. Her womb is dry. No more babes will nurse those sagging breasts, and now she knows no other infants will rest there, content against their grandmother's flesh. She mourns them all, both her offspring and mine, the ones she'll never hold.

I am spared this grief. I've known for years now this would never be so.

* * *

><p>There are neighbors, friends, teachers and politicians. They all want their turn, and the train is waiting. I kiss my mother a final farewell, then pull my father aside. "Keep her safe, <em>∏aπa<em>," I instruct him. "Remember me. Like this."

"I will." He promises.

For the first time I nearly break. "And for God's sakes don't let her watch."

My father kisses me. There's finality, but no desperation. A kiss for a daughter, yes; but a kiss for an adult. I breathe his heady scent, and we break apart. His leathery, stained hands grip my shoulders once, then fall. This is his goodbye. I turn away. Don't want to watch his retreating back. If I am to remember him, I want his weathered face and dark, tickling beard to be the last of him I see.

But my father calls me back. "What of the boy?" Xavier Malcovitch, born on Reaping Day twelve years past. Unlucky bastard. It's only fitting. Death—like life—has a poetic justice to it. _Go mad or kill yourself, for tomorrow you may die._

"What of the boy?" I return.

A smile tugs my father's lips. "Petra, my Petra," he repeats. "My Stone-heart." His final words, then he is gone.

_Remember me. Like this, _I begged him_._ But I'll never know if it's admiration-or resignation-that he relates in our final parting.


	2. The Walk

**AN: This fic is for Irish Luck, whose willingness to try her hand at non-linear storytelling (and the Hunger Games Universe) has challenged me to try something different as well. **

**This fic is rated T for violence and language. **

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><p><strong>The Walk<strong>

_We'll miss you, Angelovna. We love you, Petra_. it's sincere enough, I suppose. They whisper it as though beside my deathbed. It might be easier if it were so. I have days left. Weeks even. How odd to accept their hugs, their handshakes, their affection now.

"Represent us well," the Mayor orders brusquely. He, too, smells like alcohol, but not the pungent fumes of grain vodka. It's light, airy, like a sweet champagne. I remember he has a son my age. Most likely they've been celebrating.

I don't blame him.

She comes last. I don't blame her, either. 'Please," she simply says. "Please."

"I was handed the same fate as your son. It's the Games that killed him, not me." Killed him. Because Xavier Malcovitch is dead. There can be no question of it.

But the haggard woman falls to her knees. "Please," she begs, "protect him." She's in rags, filthy and thread-bare. Bruises line her face and arms from her beating at the hands of the Game Enforcers. I wish I could respect her, but the Games have taken that from me as well. I am Petra Angelovna, Stone-heart. Rocks can't feel. Rocks can't die.

"He's only a child," she pleads. "Please-"

"And what am I?"

"Old enough to be a mother." But her words cannot move me to sympathy, Games or no. I've heard it said the saddest thing in the world is an ugly woman, but it isn't so. An ugly woman isn't sad—she's furious.

"Get up," I snap. "You think because your son is Tribute you can mock my pain? You had _him._ A man had _you_. Games or no that's more than I'll ever have." Shoulders too broad, hips too small, no breasts to speak of and a horse's face. "Be grateful. Even if just to mourn."

She blinks. She rises. Petra Angelovna, Stone-heart. Rocks can't feel. Rocks can't die. She has only one last plea. "He's only a boy," she whispers. "Don't make him suffer."

My mother bid farewell to her only surviving daughter. This woman just asked me to slay her only son. This is the Hunger Games. This is what they do.

_Xavier Malcovitch, happy twelfth birthday, you unlucky bastard. Rocks can't feel. Rocks can't die._

* * *

><p>Victor Victor Ivan Klerov is waiting for us. Victor Victor. I used to laugh at that name. I doubt Xavier Malcovitch has laughed at anything his entire life. He's pinched and fragile. All eyes and no mouth. And right now he's clinging to his mother's skirts as though she has the power to make it all go away. He might be a child, but he's not stupid: for the last 12 years of his life boys and girls alike have boarded that train. Not a one of them has ever gotten back off.<p>

_Don't make him suffer_, his mother asked me. It's the State she should ask, the viewers she should beg, right now hungrily glued to their televisions throughout the Capitol and twelve Districts. They're the ones who want her son dead. They're the ones causing all of Panem to suffer.

_Malcovna, if you don't want your zaychik to suffer, snap his neck now. Don't make your child walk to his death alone._

My parents are already waiting in the crowd. I've bid my friends farewell. From Games past I know it makes a better impression to walk out dry-eyed and strong. My eyes face front. I look neither right nor left. Cameras follow my every step as I stride confidently towards the waiting train.

"Very good, very good," Victor Victor Klerkov mutters. "Now let's hope little Xavier does the same-"

I turn back to the platform. No such luck. Malcovna's kneeling before him and sobbing, clutching him to her breast. Even crouching she envelops him, and from where I stand he's lost in his mother's love. But the cameras are watching. The Train has a schedule. And the Capitol is watching. Other Victors, other Tributes will see this footage tonight, and she paints a target on him with her tears.

_He's only a boy. Don't make him suffer. Don't make your child walk to his death alone…_

"Angelovna, what on earth are you doing-!" Klerkov calls after me. It's foolish. Weak. Compassionate. Rocks can't feel, Rocks can't die. Perhaps I am Petra Angelovna, Stone-heart; but even I can't bear the thought that the only act of kindness Xavier Malcovitch will receive in this world is a knife to his throat.

…mine.

My father is a butcher. I know what it is to lead a lamb to slaughter. And I was half of Malcovitch's age when I first was made to watch. "All things must die, Petra." My father told me. 'There is a time for kindness, and a time for killing."

The world is watching. Malcovna turns to me through her tears. No pity. No mercy. I give her the only gift I can: the truth. "Your son's going to die," I state. "Give him the dignity to die a man."

She places his frail fingers in mine. We walk.


	3. The Train

**AN: This fic is for Irish Luck, whose willingness to try her hand at non-linear storytelling (and the Hunger Games Universe) has challenged me to try something different as well. **

**This fic is rated T for violence and language.**

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><p><strong>The Train<strong>

I shake Xavier Malcovitch off the moment the doors are closed and the cameras have stopped rolling. It's harder than it sounds. He mistakes my motives and protests this sudden rejection shrilly.

But I'm used to it. Feeding lambs, chicks, piglets and calves only to walk them to their doom. I made the mistake of making a pet out of a pretty ewe-lamb once as a child. My love didn't spare her. A time for kindness, and a time for killing. I was seven, and too weak to do what needed done myself. Now I'm faced with a different scenario, where kindness and killing are one and the same.

I can't afford weakness.

_No more compassion, Xavier. You can't become my pet. Once the Games begin, I have to have the strength to slit your throat. _

I shove him down. Hard. "I'm not your mother. Stop being a cry-baby."

Victor Victor Klerkov, our glorious leader, ignores the entire episode. He spends a deep, intimate moment with his hip-flask.

"Some help you are," I growl once District 6's newest Game fatality has curled up on the couch in sniffling consolation. Klerkov's job is to prepare us, keep us alive…and if his efforts so far are representative, it's no wonder District 6 has such a stellar record. There hasn't been a victory here since Klerkov's own, twenty-five years ago.

The drunk shrugs, massive shoulders and belly hitching up once, then falling back down. "What to do, Petra? What can I do?" He hiccoughs. "I know a lost cause when I see one."

"So do I," I retort. "If you're in such a hurry to get wasted, at least tell me where I can feed him first."

He laughs and tuts. "Ah, ah, ah, Petra Angelovna. You're not so bad. Maybe you have a chance, yes?" He takes another swig and pulls me onto his lap. "See, you grow more beautiful already. You're old enough. Entertain me."

* * *

><p>I misspoke when I said no man would have me.<p>

What I meant was I could never have a man of my choosing. The only ones who show interest are the old, the drunk, the lecherous dregs who wouldn't dare make advances on a beautiful woman. My ugliness, like their liquor, emboldens them.

"You're drunk, Victor Klerkov." I stand abruptly. "I am not. And it'll take more vodka than you can afford to make me consider that offer."

Klerkov belches, and froth dribbles down into his beard. He waves me off, indifferent. "As you will, Petra Angelovna. As you will. After all, I was only being _kind._"

I loathed him before. Now I hate him. But it will avail me nothing to endanger my only avenue of sponsorship. Victor Ivan Klerkov is a drunken, goatish glutton, but right now he's my only hope for survival.

"Come on, cry-baby," I call to Xavier. "Let's go find some food."

* * *

><p>The Train is posh. It's sleek, with wooden paneling. Specialty work. Probably a tessera's worth of credit went into making each and every compartment. It's good to know I grew up hungry for a reason—I'd hate for my District's tax dollars to have gone to <em>waste. <em>

But our foray isn't in vain. We stumble upon the galley, well stocked, and Xavier's wide eyes go huge at the sight of so many Capitol delicacies. I head straight to a bowl of fresh, farm-grown fruit and pick the largest, most succulent pear I can find. I am half-way through devouring my prize when I see an entire cart loaded with cakes, tarts, and sugar-glazed dainties of every flavor and color imaginable. I have a mind to tell him not to plow into the pastries, then I remember I am not his mother.

…I'm his killer. Let the kid eat as many goddamned cupcakes as he wants.

To my surprise, he passes them by without a glance. In the glass-walled cooling unit there's a pitcher of pure, foaming cream. I've heard the Capitol puts it in their coffee. In District 6, coffee is a brown, foul-smelling, foul-tasting drink that sustains labor camp workers. It's a staple of survival, not a delicacy. But Xavier Malcovitch doesn't care about coffee, or how many credits that pint of cream costs. He gulps it down greedily, then wipes his pointed chin and licks the drops from the back of his dirty hands.

"You'll get sick," I warn him. "You'll puke it all back up. Don't come crying to me to clean you up."

He sways, suddenly sleepy.

"C'mon, cry baby." I say reluctantly. "Let's find you a place to sleep."

* * *

><p>A place to sleep isn't all I find. I also see Nataliya 'Tasha' Pushkina, our erstwhile chaperone, for the first time. She's sprawled out on embroidered cushions, utterly oblivious.<p>

I clear my throat.

"Goodness!" She cries, startling to her feet while hastily covering an empty syringe of morphling. "is it that time already?" Her skin is painted a ghastly white, with full Kabuki colored alterations to her face and hands. I have no doubt they're permanent. In the Capitol I'm sure it's shocking, stylish, and a great way to hide the effects of her recreation. Here, in a dimly lit train compartment in District 6, it's simply grotesque.

Xavier Malcovitch agrees. He lets out a gasp and presses himself into my legs, eyes tightly closed. I now have a addict chaperone, a drunken, horny mentor, and a pre-teen Tribute with his face up my ass. _You're fucked, Petra Angelovna_, I remind myself. _Completely, totally, and utterly fucked. _

Tasha staggers across the car towards us. "How much longer?" She thinks we're servants, or an envoy. Our chaperone has no idea the Reaping went on without her.

I bite back my tongue and swallow my retort. "We'll be at the Capitol again in two day's time." I manage to say politely enough_. Long enough for the drugs to leave your system._ Capitol employees are subject to stringent testing. They're also rich enough to blackmail lower ranking officials, provided knowledge of their usage doesn't become too public.

…Too bad for Tasha Pushkina. Finally a stroke of luck for me.

* * *

><p>"You're the Tributes!" Tasha Pushkina wails. "How did this happen!" She paces the compartment furiously, fanning herself with an elaborate arrangement of mockingjay plumes. "<em>Svoloc'<em>! Oh, that worthless, worthless man-!"

"Klerkov." I state drily.

"Who else?" She pulls at her ornate headdress, looking more deranged by the second. "I should have known better than to trust him with our itinerary!"

"You should've known better than to trust him with your career." I counter. "And your life."

She shakes her magnificent head ruefully. "I suppose there's no unseeing it, is there?"

"Not for me." I state. "Cry baby here, that might be a different story." She sighs, and approaches us warily. Her famous face falls.

"_He's_ the male Tribute?" Her voice is small. I nod. "Hell," Tasha says, sitting back down on the lavish duvan, her kimono askew. "I think I'm going to need another vial."


	4. The Broadcast

**AN: This fic is for Irish Luck, whose willingness to try her hand at non-linear storytelling (and the Hunger Games Universe) has challenged me to try something different as well.**

**This fic is rated T for violence and language.**

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><p><strong>The Broadcast<strong>

Tasha Pushkina isn't stupid. Addict or not she knows my loyalty will cost her. If she wants the Capitol to keep on thinking she missed this morning's Hunger Games festivities due to a violent illness, she needs Tributes and a Victor to corroborate her story.

Xavier Malcovitch isn't a threat. Neither is Klerkov, whose own reputation has gone largely ignored for a quarter of a century. Had he represented a Career District, it'd be another thing, but no one cares about the outcome for lowly Tributes from 6. She doesn't know how hard a sell I'll be—and from her antics she's preparing for the worst.

"Well, come here, bashful!" She beams to Xavier, kneeling down beside me to take a closer look at him. Her elaborate Edo headdress falls completely by the wayside. "My, aren't you adorable! The cameras will just eat you up!"

_The other contestants as well_, I think as Xavier peers around my ass to analyze this newest anomaly in our ever-changing world. Tasha continues to coo at him, but I cut her off. "He's tired. He needs a place to sleep."

* * *

><p>"Cry baby, stay." I order. He doesn't need telling twice. He nestles into the down comforter as Tasha Pushkina pats his hair and covers him up. She thinks she can buy me by doting on Xavier. Fine. But she'd also damn well better do something to protect us. Both.<p>

Cry baby sleeps. My chaperone slinks off to the galley for her morning coffee. I follow. I've watched her on the Games before, well enough to know she's a shallow-minded, vapid, pretty face, nothing more. The thought of her trying to make me her new best friend is sickening.

She must see the glint in my eye. For the next fifteen minutes, she avoids mention of my selling tactics, even the Games themselves at all. She also doesn't bore me with talk of spas, textiles, and the newest genetic make-overs the Capitol has to offer. Instead, she focuses in on what appears the only safe subject: Xavier Malcovitch.

"I can't believe he's really twelve," She murmurs. "You're doing a good thing looking after him."

I don't know how to respond to that. This is the Hunger Games, where strategy is key to staying alive. I need Pushkina's cooperation just as much as she needs mine.

"I promised his mother I wouldn't let him suffer." I return.

"That will prove harder than you know, Petra Angelovna." She takes another long pull at her steaming mug to counter-act the effects of her addiction. "But I am glad."

I shrug.

"You don't say much, do you?" She finally asks.

I am Petra Angelovna. I am about to die. "There's not much to say."

"You're going to have a hard time," she tells me bluntly. "Your District isn't rich. Your Mentor is a drunken fool who's given up on caring, and so your Chaperone has inherited his task of preparing you. She's already let you down."

"It's once a year." I say. "Given everything else against us the very least you could do is show up clean and do your damn job."

Her mask-like face is expressionless. She hides behind her make-up, morphling, and wealth. Her next words catch me off guard. "Could you do it, Petra? Befriend children, just to watch them die?"

"Yes." I lie. "If that meant giving them a better chance of protecting themselves." But I'm not befriending him, and for a moment I hate her for thinking she knows my pain. _Tasha Pushkina, you only watch. You don't wield the knife that draws a boy's blood._

She shakes her head sadly. "Killed or killers, it makes no difference. I send children into that area, Petra. Only monsters come back out."

* * *

><p>District 1 churns out two Careers, to no one's surprise. He's eighteen, she's seventeen, and from the looks of it they've already begun their own alliance without seeing any of the other competition. They're tall. Strong. Athletic. Xavier Malcovitch doesn't stand a chance.<p>

_Undermine them_, my experience tells me. _Break them apart._

District 2 has its own champions to answer the call. They're sixteen, dark and deadly, and wouldn't you know it, twins. There's no hope for it there. They will be an Alliance, no matter what. _Get 1 and 2 to turn on each other._ They often do—it makes more sense to ally up initially, sure. But it also makes sense to kill your most skilled opponents in their sleep. Hard to do from outside the camp.

District 3 has a male Career of fifteen. He's small, sly, and I'm guessing dangerous. The clever ones always are. Their female isn't much better. She's seventeen, mousy and seemingly vapid, but the light of her smile doesn't spread through her face and there's cruelty in her bright eyes.

_He'll be a loner. She'll seek the Alliance. She might even lead it._

4 boasts two behemoths. They shake hands, cautiously. They're political, calculating, and cool. He's seventeen. She's sixteen. It's looking to be an older crowd.

_My age and size won't be an advantage, then._

District 5 fills the screen, and the real Reapings begin. Everyone else were volunteers: no longer. The crowd is restless, but not festive. One by one the children are dragged onto stage and applauded. Parents are weeping. He's fourteen, and his freckled face is petrified.

She's thirteen. She looks about to faint.

District 6's female is tall, wiry, and looks more man than girl. She doesn't blink as the cameras zoom in on her face, and she takes her place on the stand with poise.

* * *

><p>Tasha Pushkina studies my face. Asks me what I'm thinking.<p>

I tell her I want the best damn chance there is.

"It all comes down to your story, Petra." She relates from the comfort of her duvan as we watch the Reapings unfold. "But then again, you already know that."

"Forget the story. I need a good stylist, good training. I need Sponsors, Tash. The rest I can handle on my own." A high Training score rather than a low one, then. I need to make an impression, and I need to make it lasting. No hiding behind the shield of clumsiness or ineptitude for me. If it means getting a target painted on my back from all the Careers, so be it.

"I'm not talking about the Games yet, Petra. I'm talking about the _television_." She gestures onscreen, where a very calm, very poised myself crosses back the great divide between train and platform for a fellow Tribute. We have it on mute, of course. Scoping out the competition is about seeing, not hearing. And Tasha Pushkina is trying desperately to do the job of both Mentor and Chaperone, as well as make up for lost time. "You had to know they'd be watching. Why'd you do it?"

Again I shrug.

"I've never seen anything like it. Neither has the Capitol. People have volunteered for friends or family before, taken their place…but no one in the history of the Hunger Games has ever _gone back_ to help another contestant."

"It had to be done." It's the truth. Someone has to lead the lambs to slaughter. For the last 11 years of my life, it's been me.

"You know what they're saying, though? That for the ugly daughter of a butcher you still have a soft heart."

I glare at her.

"It's a good thing. Unexpected." Pushkina continues, ignoring me. "Honestly, Petra Angelovna, you're brutish, you're older, and you're _big._ The first thought any other Tribute is going to have is that you're a cold-blooded killer. You're the daughter of a butcher. You have more experience killing than any of the Careers, even. Going back for Malcovitch just threw a wrench into everyone's game. No one knows what to expect from you."

"So you think I should play it up," I state numbly. Petra Angelovna, champion of the weak and helpless. No. I can't. I won't. I am Petra, Stone-heart; and rocks do not die because rocks cannot feel. Panem has killed these children, not me.

Onscreen, a petrified little boy clings precariously to his mother, then accepts my pro-offered hand. _Xavier Malcovitch, I can't make you my pet. I have to be strong enough to do the right thing. _Either way, my kindness kills him.

But my Chaperone is full of surprises. "No." She returns. "I think you should do whatever the hell you want. It's your Games, your life. Just know that when you did what anyone else would have counted as weakness, you scared the living shit out of every single Mentor, including your own." She grins. "And that's a strength, Petra Angelovna. Use it or not, it's up to you. But I'd be remiss in my duties if I didn't so much as make you _aware_."

...I'll be damned. There's more to Tasha Pushkina than meets the eye.


	5. The Key

**AN: This fic is for Irish Luck, whose willingness to try her hand at non-linear storytelling (and the Hunger Games Universe) has challenged me to try something different as well. Turns out, girl, that _non_-non-linear storytelling is more difficult than it sounds. **

**This fic is rated T for violence and language.**

* * *

><p><strong>The Key<strong>

It's late. I'm bundled into a compartment so luxurious it's suffocating. I now know the faces of all my competitors, and it just reiterates again that I'm completely _fucked._

"Remember, your story is key." Tasha reminded me before she checked in for the night. "Ring me if you need anything." Story. Right. Like my mysterious bad girl image could stand up to any rigorous testing. I kill animals for a living, not _people_. I'm ugly. I only _look _mean. It wouldn't matter if my father was a butcher or a priest I'd still have this mug and this awful build. It's not like I chose to be this way.

It's also not like the Tributes from 1, 8 and 10 who are rocking the 'sexy' look will find it any more useful to them in the Arena. Good looking, bad looking, we all bleed and die alike. But it will buy them Sponsors. And Sponsors mean clean water, medicine, even _food. _They don't call them the Hunger Games for nothing.

I scowl begrudgingly into the bathroom mirror. These days a girl can't even practice proper hygiene without a visual reminder of how droll she is. I part my wet hair. Comb it out with my fingers. Goddamnit I try to smile, but my face goes all lopsided and my eyes get all squinty and disappear.

I drop my towel. Survey my lack of cleavage. Yup. Still there-not that you'd ever know if I wasn't butt-ass naked. I've known twelve year olds with larger ones. I sigh. No matter how many times I look into a mirror, I keep coming back for more. More torture. More agony. Like there's something wrong with the programming of the female brain that makes you think you might have suddenly become beautiful and all your problems would be solved.

What the hell. I push them together. Boost them up.

Nope. Still ugly.

S_o that's your genius plan, Petra?_ Something sarcastic in the back of my mind asks. _Alter your tits and you'll win the Games?_

My straight spine slumps, dejected. I'm ugly and there's nothing for it. My story is the key, Tasha insisted. Key to winning Sponsors. Key to winning the Games.

…but what the Hell is it? I ask my scowling reflection as I lean in, stare her in the eye. Who am I, really? Or who can I pretend to be? What is it those cameras see from yards away that I can't find less than a foot in front of me? But most importantly in this well of profound philosophy I wonder how in the name of all things profane did Xavier Malcovitch manage to sneak into my bathroom unseen.

* * *

><p>"<em>Get out you little creep!"<em>

I grab the first thing my hand finds and fling it with all my might. A bottle of slick shampoo explodes against the wall behind him. "_Pervert, I said get out!" _ Conditioner crashes into his chest, winding him and sends him sprawling.

"_Get out get out get out-!" _He starts running, but only goes in crazy, drunken circles. Never once does he bolt for the open door. _"What the hell is wrong with you! Are you just that fucking stupid-!"_

…and the answer, which should have been painfully obvious from the beginning, is _yes._

I shout til I'm blue in the face, tears streaming, throat hoarse, dancing madly on the spot and I run out of bottles to throw. Malcovitch has now exhausted hiding places and the sink, the shower, behind the toilet and the interior of the small closet are now equally splotched with pungent, floral-scented slime. He keels over, either in dizziness or exhaustion, and before I can even cover myself another unwelcome visitor joins the fray.

Tasha Pushkina bursts through my bedroom door with preterhuman strength looking utterly deranged, her irate voice berating Victor Ivan Klerkov with terms I've never even heard of."_YOU COCK-SUCKING SISTER-SHAGGING SON OF A WHORE YOU LAY ONE FINGER ON HER AND I'LL-!"_

A naked eighteen year-old gawks at her, forgotten towel clutched limply in one fist.

She stops short.

"Oh." She manages weakly, eyes darting between me and my would-be attacker. "…so you weren't yelling about Klerkov, then?"

But before I can so much as collect my dignity or wits the man himself comes staggering through the doorframe. "What the helizgoinon?"

"GET OUT!"

* * *

><p>Tasha Pushkina finally gets to fulfill her role as Hunger Games Chaperone for District 6. She gets to tell a contestant to calm the fuck down and go talk with their Mentor. She's bundled me into a robe, and called a 'family meeting' in the Galley. An Avox is probably scrubbing my compartment as we speak. Or rather, don't.<p>

"I don't want to talk to him, he _saw_ me-!" I insist.

"There wasn't much to see," he grunts.

"What did you expect?" She cries in exasperation, grinding the heel of one slippered foot into his instep. "You sounded half-raped in there! Of course we were going to come!"

"And you, Nataliya Pushkina," Klerkov fingers his beard thoughtfully. "Sounded half as if you suspected me of being the culprit."

She winces.

"So you heard a distressed female voice yelling about creeps and perverts and your mind just happened to wander to me." He states coolly. "How touching."

She blurts a lame-assed apology about him being the only man on the train. I tout another theory. "Or maybe it's because everyone knows you're dirty old man and a drunk."

"Petra, please, calm down-"

"I'm on a train with an addict, a voyagueristic 12 year old and a pervert who's already proposed I lap dance him on my way to get killed! I will NOT calm down!" My face is hot and flushed, but my knuckles have gone white and cold. My heart hammers in my chest, and my voice has reached borderline hysteria.

…I think reality's just caught up with me. _I'm Petra Angelovna. I am about to die. _Suddenly getting spied on by a dirty-minded mute boy and solicited by a drunk doesn't sound half bad. Hell. The anger all but evaporates. I feel stupid, sheepish, and a little bit ashamed.

_So much for that tough-girl image, genius._

But far from being pleased, Tasha Pushkina stiffens. Her dark eyes shoot daggers. "Klerkov, is that true?"

Victor Victor Ivan Klerkov looks grieviously injured as he addresses me gravely. "Petra Angelovna, it was a joke."

"Did you see me laughing?" I snap.

"Alright, enough!" Tasha Pushkina demands authoritatively. For some reason it quiets us. Maybe there's a unwritten rule in the human psyche that you don't fuck with a woman in a samurai-style kimono whose painted on eyebrows have disappeared into her hair, elaborate wig though it may be."It's been a harrowing day. For all of us," she says, with an especially placating glance in my direction. "Go to bed. _Both_ of you," she eyeballs Klerkov sternly. "We'll discuss this in the morning."

Klerkov harrumphs, and takes another swig of vodka. I turn on my heel, silently fuming. But it's only as I stalk away that I realize who and what started this whole mess and how he did it: Xavier Malcovitch isn't just mute, he's goddamn _invisible._ In five minutes he hasn't so much as even moved. We just had an entire conversation right over his head…and forgot he was even there.

We make eye contact. He smiles mischievously.

But I'm in no mood to be kind at the moment. "Go to bed, cry baby." I order. "_Now_."

* * *

><p>I spring up when a beam of light falls across my face. Hell, I didn't even hear the door opening. And there's only one person on this train that invisible, and that unwelcome.<p>

"Get out." I order the darkness.

But thirty seconds later, I'm beginning to think I imagined it. Hell, he'd still have to _breathe_, wouldn't he?

"Cry baby?" I whisper, feeling foolish. The large, pallid eyes of Xavier Malcovitch jump out of the darkness inches from my bedframe. I start. Damn, he's _good. _But I'm not in the mood to be impressed, or forgiving. "Xavier Malcovitch, get out of my bedroom. _Now_." I demand.

He continues to stare at me like the roaming, half-wild dogs of District 6 as they watch through the slats of the killing shack, begging for even the hint of scraps. They slink off tail-tucked when my father comes around, but somehow they always think they can charm a woman.

...sometimes they're right."Xavier Malcovitch, if you don't get out right now I'll-" _what are you going to do, Petra? You've already decided you're going to kill the kid._ "I'll scream." I finish lamely.

Those lamp-like eyes don't even so much as blink.

I lay down, bundle all my covers around me, and pull the pillow over my head. "You are NOT sleeping here." I count to 100. I open my eyes.

Malcovitch hasn't moved. "You are NOT staying here." I roll over and pull the pillow back over my face. Within a minute, a light, gentle weight pads across the bare mattress behind me. "Hell." Xavier Malcovitch has less than seven nights to live. I am Petra Angelovna, the Stone-heart, and I am either kind enough—or cruel enough—to let him snuggle innocently under my covers while I plot his execution.

But boyish or not, he's still _twelve._ "You so much as touch one of my tits, kid, and the deal's off," I growl. "I'll let you fucking starve." He yawns in response and nestles deeper into me. _Great job, Petra. You're the world's biggest push-over_. Now we're fucked. Both of us. Unless overnight someone's decided to re-write the rules to include leniency for things like weakness and sheer adorability.

Yeah. Right.

* * *

><p>I lay awake. Cry baby's face has fallen awkwardly against my armpit. "Don't name them, Petra, if you're not strong enough." Father said after he'd killed and dressed Lilly. Hanging by her hind legs, gutted and gory, her linen-white wool now crisp with blood she looked nothing like the delicate flower I'd named her for. "Or better still, my Petra, become strong and do."<p>

...I've never named another. Not until today.

_Become strong, and do._ I'm Petra Angelovna, and that's my story. That's my key. The world cringed when I went back for Xavier Malcovitch. Now they're going to reel in horror when I snap his swan-like neck._ It'll be quick, Cry baby_, I whisper in the dark as I kiss his forehead._ It'll be kind. You'll never feel a thing._


	6. The Mentor

**AN: This fic is for Irish Luck, whose willingness to try her hand at non-linear storytelling (and the Hunger Games Universe) has challenged me to try something different as well.**

**This fic is rated T for violence and language.**

* * *

><p><strong>The Mentor<strong>

The next morning holds surprises of its own. Malcovitch rolls over sleepily under my vacated covers. I walk to the toilet. Piss. Splash my face, and head to breakfast.

_Rule number one: people starve._

_Corollary: eat while you can_.

Tasha Pushkina interrupts my feast of grain mash, potatoes, and fried eggs. Her face and bald head are a mask of oily green of a frightful hue. I raise an eyebrow. "It's a long-acting moisturizing exfoliator," she explains as if anyone would know what that meant. "All the women in Capitol are doing it."

We spend a few awkward moments in silence, neither of us wanting to broach the subject of last night's fiasco. "Someone's hungry this morning," she says shyly. I grunt in reply, and shovel another forkful of potatoes into my mouth. I stick with foods I'm familiar with-there's no point in puking or getting sick.

She selects fruit, soy yogurt, and coffee with cream. Through the windows behind her, I can just make out the beginnings of the Capitol District in the latent darkness. To the East, there's a pale sliver of dawn creeping up over the horizon.

"You're up early," I tell her.

"Withdrawal," she grimaces. "Morphling's a downer. I can't sleep without it. Last year I was awake for seven straight days."

"Are you even going to be able to function?" I ask bitterly.

Her answer saddens me. "Petra Angelovna, you're a good girl, and on my word as your Chaperone I'm going to get you all the help you need."

* * *

><p>We're not the only ones up. And if Tasha Pushkina's pre-dawn presence at the breakfast table caught me off guard, it's nothing compared to the shock of seeing Victor Victor Ivan Klerkov stumble in honest to Games almost <em>sober<em>.

Without further adieu, he sends my Chaperone scampering: "Tasha, darling, you'll have to excuse me. I need a word with my champion."

Her eyes go huge. She swipes her coffee and yogurt and leaves without even a hasty word in goodbye. What the hell?

* * *

><p>Klerkov eyes me coolly, thick fingers combing through his tangled beard."You're not going to complain?"<p>

"There's no one to listen," I snap, looking up from my food. "And I'm a big girl. I can take care of myself."

"Last night I was a dirty old man and you didn't seem to want to be left in a room alone with me."

"Last night Tasha Pushkina called you a cock-sucking, sister-shagging son of a whore." My fork stabs the potatoes with vehemence. "This morning she said nothing at all."

One of his oiled eyebrows raises, intrigued. "And?"

"And _nothing,_" I return. "I don't depend on her to protect me. If you wanted to hurt any of us she wouldn't be able to stop you."

Something dawns in his all-too-eager eyes. I don't like it. "And you would?"

_Damn it Petra, you have to play this carefully!_ I might not want or need his help, but I sure as hell can't afford to have my own mentor as my enemy, drunkard though he is. "I never said that."

"But you're not afraid." The light in his eyes spreads hungrily through the rest of his strained smile.

To hell with it. "Touch me, Victor Ivan Klerkov, and your balls will know it before your dick."

"Don't worry, Petra, my dear. I think that fucking with you would be a very, very foolish thing to do," he states solemnly. "And it's not just my _eyes _saying so." Then he laughs. For the first time in years Victor Victor Ivan Klerkov throws his head back and laughs loud, long, and unabashedly until hot tears roll down his cheeks and into his dark beard.

I seethe, silently.

* * *

><p>He pulls back a chair, and plops down wordlessly. He reclines it back, his putrid, hairy feet splayed out on the table. "Petra Angelovna, you're absolutely right. I am a dirty old man, a drunk, and a failure. But you're also <em>wrong:<em> I really was only joking."

_Petra Angelovna, it was a joke. _I'm hardly inclined to believe him. "Right. Because I'm too damn ugly even _you_ couldn't get it up."

"It's a test, Petra Angelovna," he explains. "One I've used for twenty-four years. It's never let me down."

"What, to see if your Tribute can pass her oral exams?"

But suddenly he grows serious. "No, Petra Angelovna. To see if any of them have the spirit it takes to win." My breakfast lays forgotten on the table.

"I'm an investor, plain and simple. Mostly I invest in vodka-I never make much profit, but then again, I never lose anything. Investing in Tributes costs, Petra Angelovna," Klerkov explains seriously. "And I _never_ invest myself lightly."

* * *

><p>He asks me my strategy. It's simple. "Win."<p>

He nods. Slowly. It takes him several minutes of deep contemplation to speak again. I don't dare touch my food for fear he's testing me.

"What about Malcovitch?" he finally asks.

"What about Malcovitch?" I return.

"You can't keep him," he frowns.

"I don't plan to."

His frown only deepens. "Tasha Pushkina thinks otherwise."

"Tasha Pushkina is a well-meaning fool," I say bluntly.

"So deception's your game, is it?" He asks lazily.

"I'm not a liar. I promised his mother I wouldn't make him suffer. And that's exactly what I told Tasha."

He strokes his beard, deep in thought. "But you let her infer from that what she would."

"That's her problem. Not mine." _And I need her help, since I can't count on you. I need her faith and influence up until the moment I enter the Games._

_Rule number two: people lie._

_Corollary: sometimes to deceive, you have to tell the truth._

He surveys me solemnly. Perhaps he guesses more than he shows. I can't be weak. Not in his eyes. I can't afford to become another risk-adverse investment. "What are your strengths?"

"I can kill." I _will_ kill.

"What are your weapons?" He presses.

"I've watched the Hunger Games. More than any other contestant, and I'm old enough to remember them. I know how they work."

"So do all the Careers."

"Well then," I shrug, "I guess I'll have to do something about the Careers, then, won't I?"

He shakes his head, traces of a sad smile tugging the tendrils of his beard. "No, Petra Angelovna. I am thinking that _we_ will. I can help you win the Games," he continues. "If you're sure that is what you truly want."

"Damn fucking." I am not a selfless heroine. I want to _live._

"Then you will not complain," he orders abruptly. "You will not question. You will do as I say, when I say, and you will obey implicitly."

He has my answer and my disgust. "The hell I will."

"Good." He grunts. "Then I think we have an understanding." And with that, Victor Victor Ivan Klerkov—perhaps a drunk but still very, very dangerous—leaves me to my breakfast and confusion.

I stare down at the plate of lukewarm eggs and mushed potatoes, my appetite vanished. I don't quite understand. What the hell just happened?

* * *

><p>I find Tasha Pushkina in my room, painstakingly brushing Malcovitch's hair. She's lost the fright mask and is back to wearing one of her illustrious wigs—this morning's is an impractical concoction of interwoven braids. Although after one look at Xavier Malcovitch's matted, tangled mess of curls I change my mind. It's <em>definitely<em> more practical to fuck it and wear a wig.

"What just happened?" She rounds on me the instant the door is shut. "What the hell just happened?"

"Cry baby, _scram_." I order, taking his place next to our Chaperone on the bed. He wanders aimlessly into the bathroom, unreadable as ever.

I flop back into the covers and close my eyes. I find myself confessing the first thing that comes to my mind. "I'm not really sure."


	7. The Truth

**AN: This fic is for Irish Luck, whose willingness to try her hand at non-linear storytelling (and the Hunger Games Universe) has challenged me to try something different as well. **

**This fic is rated T for violence and language.**

* * *

><p><strong>The Truth<strong>

That's how Victor Victor Ivan Klerkov finds us. Me in bed, grumping, with Tasha Pushkina trying her best to console me and groom Cry baby both at the same time. He tuts upon entering the room, weathered face drawn into a deep frown under his bushy beard.

"Now is not the time for resting, Petra Angelovna." He corrects as curt as a schoolmaster. "Now is the time for _action_."

I sit up in bed. I can't help but notice Tasha's spine has gone rigid. But this is a moment between Tribute and Mentor, and years of training have shown her it's best not to interrupt. She continues babbling to Malcovitch, now bouncing on her knees as she tackles the underside of his tangled hair. "I don't understand," I hear myself say. "I never agreed to your terms."

"Of course your didn't!" He cries impatiently, slamming one raised fist into the palm of the other. "If you had,_ moya Petren'ka_, I would have been considerably disappointed!"

I understand now. "It was a test." _Again._

"Yes, Petra Angelovna, it was." He sighs. "This time, to you believe me?"

"I'm not sure I like you." I finally reply.

"And I am sure you do not need to." He continues with disdain. "I did not ask if you _liked _me, Petra Angelovna. I do not care. I want to know do you believe me? Will you let yourself win the Hunger Games?"

A long silence. "I'll try."

"Do, or do not," he warns me. "There is no try. Not here. Here there is only win, or die." _You decide. _"Now come," he orders with a flick of his wrist. "We have business to discuss."

Behind me, Xavier Malcovitch giggles shrilly at Tasha's continuous prattling. I feel her eyes bore through me, but I don't dare turn my back to say goodbye. It might be another test…and with Klerkov, I can't afford to fail.

* * *

><p>"Shoulders back!" My reformed Mentor bellows, "Chest out! Walk like a champion!"<p>

Right. Sure. Like tightening my ass and shoving my pectorals out is going to convince anyone that I actually have _breasts_. I don't look like a champion—I look like an i_mbecile_. "I'm walking like an idiot."

"Petra Angelovna, that you are far from," he corrects both me and my posture sternly. "Our friend Mr. Malcovitch, however, I am not so sure."

"Look, Klerkov, I'm _ugly_. The world knows it. Why the hell do you want to make me strut?" All of Panem saw me board that train. There'll be no fooling them now.

"Because, because, because, _moya Petren'ka,_" he lays his hairy, bearish hands on my shoulders, gripping tightly, "because Victor Ivan Klerkov knows you are a champion, but to the world that does not matter. What matters is that you _look_ it. _Ac_t it. And most importantly that they _see_ it. You must fool the world into seeing you f_or what you really are." _He enunciates carefully. "This will be your hardest task. They must see the truth within the lie."

I've sold Klerkov on my capacity to win the Games by being myself. Now I have to pretend to be me to convince the sodden idiots of the Capitol. For a Victor with a shitty record of losses, he's sharp. Smart. _Victor Ivan Klerkov, you bastard. You could have saved any one of those Tributes if you'd really tried-!_

...That realization comes with a bitter, bilious feeling rising in my throat. I chew my tongue. "What about Malcovitch?"

"What about Malcovitch?" He asks coolly, one eyebrow arched. "My job is a to train a champion, not play nursemaid to a little boy."

"So you're just going to let him die." I say. _Like you did all the others, all those risky investments you never gave a chance..._

"And that makes me a monster?" Klerkov chuckles, releasing me. "Good heavens. _You_ were the one who was going to kill him."

There is no answer to that question. Either way, I'm damned. "He doesn't deserve to suffer."

"Few do, Petra Angelovna," my Mentor shrugs, but his large shoulders are weighted with the sadness of seventy-one—now seventy-two—deaths, even if his deep voice doesn't betray so much as a tremble. "Few do."

* * *

><p><strong>AN: For Victor Ivan Klerkov to have won his Games, he had to outlive 23 people. Since he is currently District 6's only living Victor, and stated that he has used his 'test' for 24 years, he has watched the deaths of 48 Tributes from his District. That adds up to 71. Xavier Malcovitch's demise will be 72.<strong>


	8. The Capitol

**AN: This fic is for Irish Luck, whose willingness to try her hand at non-linear storytelling (and the Hunger Games Universe) has challenged me to try something different as well. Thanks for sharing your thoughts about my OC's, girl. Everyone else reading is welcome to do the same!**

**This fic is rated T for violence and language.**

* * *

><p><strong>The Capitol<strong>

The train heaves to a stop at the Capitol station. My heart is hammering and I feel like puking my guts out, familiar foods at breakfast or no. I've seen it before, of course, on the vids, but even on the largest of screens no picture can ever prepare you for the sheer, stark terror that is mankind.

_Behold_, he cries, _look what I have done!_ The very sky is etched out around massive columnades of buildings upon buildings rising and twisting and fighting like a massive forest of industry and steel. The morning sunlight sheers off glass paneling, fiery and flickering in a blinding glare. And filled to the bursting, overflowing and running over that immense anomaly are the people.

I've never seen so many. Didn't know so many could exist…and their collective. chorus is deafening.

Tasha Puskina peers through the tinted windows at the gathered crowd. Tributes from Districts 1 and 2 have now all disembarked. "How are you feeling?" She asks timidly.

"There's so fucking many,"I grunt.

She puts a light touch on my arm. "You have to be brave, Petra Angelovna. For both your sake's."

…she's right. She just doesn't know it yet.

* * *

><p>Districts 3 and 4 have now disappeared into the maddening throng. It's nearly our turn. Tasha's face has grown both resigned and vapid—with a jolt I realize she's preparing as much as me. "You hate this, don't you," I finally whisper.<p>

She grimaces. "More than you know."

I'll admit. She's got me confused. "Why?"

She shrugs under that braided monstrosity. "The same reasons you do, I suppose. The sight of this many people just makes my insides go all cold."

"No, I mean, why do it, then?"

Her heart-shaped, tattooed lips smile sadly. "Because in the Capitol, Petra Angelovna, being a beautiful woman has its downsides."

I muse over her words as the Tributes from District 5 make their descent. "I don't understand."

"You wouldn't," she continues placidly. "Be grateful for that, Petra."

"Because I'm ugly?" I snort.

"Because there are two types of cruelty women suffer at the hands of men. You've known your share of one, but in the other, child, you've been spared."

I frown. "I'm not a child."

She eyes me up and down, from my wide, flat feet to my curveless hips and unblossomed breasts. "I doubt you're a _woman_, either, Petra Angelovna."

My face flushes crimson. _Is it that damn obvious-?_

She laughs, but it is not unkind. "Petra, no eighteen year-old but a virgin would have put up such a fuss about being seen by two men. Or a boy and a drunk, to be more accurate."

A sudden thought occurs that terrifies me. "Tasha, were you…" _raped_. But I can't say the word outloud.

"No, Petra. I was thirteen, he was seventeen," she closes her eyes in rapture at the memory. "And he was very, _very_ gentle. But I realized then what lay in store for me. Here in the Capitol, beautiful women are forced to be _seen._ An Escort, a Consort, a Mistress, a Dancer…or even a Vid performer. "

I shudder. Never before have I considered my ugliness an advantage. Fate, I'm suddenly thankful. "So you chose the Games."

"Where I'm required to show my face," she continues somberly, "but as for the rest of me, well, they're forced to wonder." In all six years Nataliya 'Tasha' Pushkina has Chaperoned the Games, teenage me never stopped to question her ridiculous sense of fashion with ornate, costumed clothing, lavish wigs and theatrical make-up. I was petty, I was jealous, I was angry at the Capitol and thought her just another brainless bimbo like so many of the Chaperones and Stylists. Small though she is, she grows giant in my eyes, and suddenly I feel like a little girl again, looking up at my mother in wordless admiration.

…I haven't felt that way since I was five, when the first of my sisters died.

"It proved too much, of course." She gestures to her permanent tattooing to cover her addiction. "I was selfish. I wasn't strong enough." _Could you do it, Petra? Befriend children once a year, just to watch them die? _ Tasha Pushkina does morphling nearly three-hundred and sixty days of every year, just so she can forget.

"I don't think you're weak, either," I whisper.

She blinks, and a tear glides unexpectedly down her painted face. "You know, Petra Angelovna, for the ugly, uneducated daughter of a butcher who doesn't say much, you can still be very, very kind."


	9. The Entrance

**AN: This fic is for Irish Luck, whose willingness to try her hand at non-linear storytelling (and the Hunger Games Universe) has challenged me to try something different as well. So what are you waiting for? Go read her Hunger Games fic, Legacy!**

**This fic is rated T for violence and language.**

* * *

><p><strong>The Entrance<strong>

Victor Victor Ivan Klerkov strolls into the compartment as the anthem of District 6 is broadcast. It sounds dull and powerless against the backdrop of the enormous city, its ethnic undertones now pathetic and weak, a show of quaintness instead of greatness as the Capitol drains its pride and power. It's all for show, of course, by a Capitol orchestra with no sense of interpretation.

It's a song of the cold, frozen North brought back from before the Apocalypse and the changing of the world when everything was forgotten. It's meant to be melancholy, not a _march._

"It is time." He announces abruptly. "It is time to be a champion." Now I know what he meant. He's changed into his finest, raw-silk robes, trimmed in wolverine fur and worn under a breast-plate of ornate, native armor. His bulging arms are encircled with protective gauntlets wrapped in varnished leather studded with teeth from elbow to wrist. His unkempt beard is now sleek and oiled, and his brittle, yellow nails have been filed to sharp points and painted a coppery, matte bronze. He now looks every bit as dangerous as I know him to be.

Cry baby agrees. He lets out a squeal and plants his face in my ass again. "None of that!" The Bear before us thunders. Even Tasha Pushkina jumps. "I will not have you mess up our entrance, little _Zaychik_! Do you know what bears do to bunnies, Mr. Malcovitch?"

He peers out around me and shakes his head, nose still pressed tightly into my hip.

"THEY EAT THEM!" Klerkov roars. Cry baby wails in fright, clinging harder.

"Klerkov, you're scaring him!" Tasha shouts. "Leave the boy alone!" She's right—Xavier Malcovitch is fragile. If Klerkov had wanted to ruin any chance of us getting off the train with the slightest trace of dignity intact, he couldn't have done a better job.

"I do NOT deal with children," my Mentor sniffs. "I deal with champions."

She crosses her arms, glaring. "Is that your excuse, then, Victor Ivan Klerkov? None of the others had a good enough chance so you couldn't even be bothered to _try_?"

Klerkov glares from under his bristling eyebrows. "Enough!" I order. "Enough." Both their arguments are valid, but we can fight it out another time. Outside, the orchestra has reached the second chorus. All the eyes of Panem are now watching our train.

* * *

><p>"Shoulders back. Head high. Stand straight!" Klerkov growls. "You have no breasts because you do not <em>try,<em> Petra Angelovna! Today you are not afraid! Today you show the world you are a child no longer!"

I haven't been a child since I was seven. Not since I watched father kill Lilly. But Tasha Puskina said I wasn't a woman yet, either. Staring out at the masses of Panem's Capitol with a lump in my throat threatening to choke me, I wonder vaguely what that makes me.

"What about Xavier?" Tasha Pushkina asks lowly. His tiny hands are clasped in one of her painted palms.

"I can save one," Klerkov shrugs. "One or none. Which will you have it be, Nataliya? Petra, or neither?"

She sets her jaw, and tears threaten to spill. "That's not how it works, Klerkov! You're supposed to promote them both!"

"No, Nataliya Pushkina, I am here to _train_," Klerkov continues harshly. "And you should be happy I do even that. You are to do the promoting, then. So go on. Promote him." He gestures to Cry baby with disgust. "May the odds of him winning be ever in your favor."

"Go to hell." She spits. The heel of her free palm crashes against the side of his chin. It's the closest she can come to striking his face. But Victor Ivan Klerkov doesn't even so much as blink.

She turns to me, imploringly. "Petra, please-"

I wheel away. Away from her pleading look, away from Xavier Malcovitch's wide, piteous eyes. I am Petra, Stone-heart. Rocks can't feel. Rocks can't die. If I want to win—if I want to _live_—I must become Klerkov's champion. "I got him on the train, Tasha." I whisper. "If you want him off, that's your business."

* * *

><p>Klerkov and Tasha exit first, her delicate arm entwined with his iron-clad wrist. They make a fine show, to be sure. If I didn't know them better, I would say they were enjoying it, even. Tasha's natural grace and litheness make her almost dance down the sanguine carpet laid before them. She waves and prances, like the good little show-girl she is. Klerkov plods stoically, nodding his magnificent head in beneficence like a lord to his subjects. District 6 is hardly rich, and has no right to be so damn popular with the crowd, but the people of Panem's Capitol drink it up like vodka after a harsh winter's work.<p>

_Head up. Shoulders back. Breasts out. Glide. You can do this, Petra,_ I tell myself as I take that first step towards the waiting Arena. _Just pretend that crowd is cheering for you._

* * *

><p>...I'll be damned. They <em>are.<em>

I feel giddy and disgusted simultaneously. The nervousness has gone. "The Butcher!" they cry, "The Butcher!" They _love_ me. Me, Petra Stone-heart, the Child-killer. Xavier Malcovitch's innocent face has given me nightmares, but the thought of taking a blade to one of these applauding assholes who will watch us die for their viewing pleasure is oddly satisfying.

_What would it look like to watch a man bleed out?_ I wonder. _That one, right there. Will he scream, cry, beg for his life like a bleating lamb? Or will he simply accept his fate-? _Not that it matters. It's just a point of curiosity.

Perhaps that thought shows on my face. Victor Ivan Klerkov instructed me to keep my eyes facing front, but I've found nothing can frighten a herd of cattle like a man on his feet staring them right in the eye. The hundred in the first row stop their cheering mid-clap under my contemptuous stare. I hold their gazes, one by one, as I stride down the sanguine stairs to the streets below littered with coins, flowers, and District flags. _I am Petra Angelovna_, I tell them, _and you are all about to die._


	10. The Crowd

**AN: Thanks to everyone leaving reviews! They make my day, and the more I hear, the faster I write. Not kidding. It's a positive feedback loop and it's darn addicting!**

****This fic is rated T for violence and language.****

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><p><strong>The Crowd<strong>

'The Butcher!" They continue to cry, "The Butcher!" I cannot cow them. My disdain for their antics and my coldness only incite them to higher furies. Each looks away from my gaze, unable to hold it, but each goes back to cheering the moment I have passed.

I want to stop. Scream. Grab one and show them what it is they're cheering for. You don't need a knife to slaughter poultry-all you need is the strength of your wrist. If I killed a Tribute in the Arena they'd applaud and stomp, but Heaven forbid I spill Capitol blood on Capitol streets. Such a thing isn't proper. Such a thing isn't done.

…I wonder if I'm the first Tribute to think this. Then I wonder if they can tell. These people worship death. Perhaps, in their eyes, once a year they get to meet their _gods._

* * *

><p>The roped off road seems to go on for miles. I can barely make out the brightly colored fabric of Tasha's embroidered yellow kimono in the distance ahead. Already, the train is growing smaller behind me. I'm alone. Alone in a sea of churning, chanting, cheering bodies. I find myself hoping that Malcovitch somehow turned himself invisible again as I thread my way slowly through a hail of confetti, candy and flowers. Then someone decides to be a wise-ass. From a lower-level balcony someone lets loose a rain of blood.<p>

I heard it coming. Avoided most of the downpour and got caught by the splatter. Hot, red, viscous liquid sears my eyes, face, and protecting arms. I gasp. Stagger. The cheering of the crowd has become a distant, thundering roar as those around me fall suddenly silent.

"BAH, BUTCHER! BAH, BUTCHER!" my assailant crows.

I'm hurting. In pain. I can't show it. Can't expect anyone to help me. The only two people in the entire world who might care aren't even my friends, they're my handlers. But Tasha Pushkina and Victor Ivan Klerkov are out of earshot. Out of sight. I am momentarily beyond their aid.

Fuck. I wipe my streaming eyes and face with the inside of my shirt. I storm to the edge of the carpet and wrench a glass bottle from the hands of a surprised citizen before Game Security can move to stop me. I squat, twist, and throw all my weight into hurling that heavy projectile at my leering attacker. It's a long shot, and a needless risk. Hell, all of Panem is watching, and for all I know I might throw like a _girl._

But I'm not thinking straight right now, I'm pissed_._ If you're going to go through all that trouble to attach a Tribute in public, at least have the decency to throw real _blood_. A butcher's daughter knows the difference.

My fears are needless. Years of honing hand-eye coordination and fine motor skills make me an exceptional marksman. The glass hits and shatters on impact with a satisfying burst of blood. But I'm not done yet. The creep stumbled over the railing and now lies in the middle of the red carpeting. He lets out a groan.

I walk with all the dignity and poise I can muster. _Victor Ivan Klerkov, you would be proud._ He's fat and flabby, and the sight of me bearing down on him nearly makes him sick. "Puh, puh, puh-please-" he stammers, blinking through the mask of blood and the haze of his concussion as he backs away on his wrists.

There's a large piece of bottle jutting out from the side of his head. I shove my heel into his testicles to steady the body, then yank.

He lets out a howl. The glass dislodges easily. I swipe the shard across his face quick and clean as I would cut a carotid."That's what real blood tastes like," I hiss. "Remember it."

* * *

><p>Game Security is pissed. They race forward, batons raised, but the impinging crowd boos them back. Litter, shoes, rotten fruit and I swear cow dung come flying from the chanting crowd, their antics rising to a religious fervor. They're forced to pull back to maintain the perimeter, but even now the crowd has pressed itself onto the carpet itself, narrowing the lane. The air is thick with cries, body heat, and anticipation. Imploring arms reach for me, grasp for even a piece of my clothing or hair. Some of the worst offenders, I'm sickened to note, are <em>children.<em>

It feels dangerous. Like walking through a herd of agitated cattle on the brink of stampede.

It's frightening. I just maimed and grievously injured a man in front of them, and now they're shouting for Security's blood simply for interfering. _I didn't do it for you!_ I want to scream as chants of _Butcher, Butcher, Butcher_ threaten to deafen me. There's nothing entertaining about watching a man sob in a pool of his own blood. But—I find with some satisfaction—it is easier than watching an animal suffer.

All the hundreds of animals I've killed or seen slaughtered have been innocent. This man _deserved _what he got. Hell, he might have deserved more.

But it's had a second effect as well. One I couldn't anticipate. Losing my temper was a very, very poor choice in front of this crowd. They have the bloodlust…and they have it _bad._

"They're escalating!" I hear security shout. "Kid, you better run!"

Kid? Oh, right. _Me_.

"Get her the hell out of here!"

They jostle me forward, arms at the ready against any further assault. We're pelted with rotten fruit and shoes. The hisses and boos of a hundred thousand throats assault us from every direction. I can only think how perverted it is that these eight men protect me. In less than a week's time, they'll be applauding my potential execution on screen. But until the moment I step foot in the Arena, the Capitol will invest every resource available into keeping every last one of us alive.

…that is if they don't _forget _us. Suddenly I remember a little boy back on the train.

"Where's Malcovitch?" I shout to be heard.

"Who-?" the uniformed guard's cry is hoarse and cracking with the effort to overpower the crowd.

"Malcovitch!"

"Who the hell is _Malcovitch_?"

_The goddamn invisible boy_. "The second Tribute!"

"There's one still on the train?" He gasps. "Fuck!" Behind us, the train is all but lost in a swirling sea of blood-crazed lunatics. _You're fucked, Petra Angelova_, I tell myself for the hundredth time. _Completely, absolutely, totally fucked._


	11. The Resistance

**AN: If you like Hunger Games fics that are just a little bit different and a whole lot edgy, go check out Irish Luck's Legacy. You won't be disappointed!**

**This fic is rated T for violence and language.**

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><p><strong>The Resistance<strong>

The crowd is feverish. They press and tug against my captors or would-be-rescuers, all vying for a piece of me. Someone manages to grasp my hair, and it hurts like hell. I let out a shriek, and security stops. Too late. I send an elbow into the pervert's stomach and even over the maddening crowd I hear the breath go out of him. He swears.

Only he's not a he. She's a fourteen year-old kid holding a tuft of my hair with skin still attached, screaming in hysteria. A pack of girls fall on her, clawing, biting, kicking and scratching to steal her hard-earned prize.

Blood bubbles down my scalp. I think I'm going to be sick.

* * *

><p>We're trapped.<p>

They press in from every side, pounding with fists or stones against the riot shields of this small Game Security force. Eight men have their backs turned to me, encasing me completely in an isolated shell.

"For Game's Sake, just shoot!" Officer One cries.

"Negative! We've got another Tribie in this crowd! We hold for Central!" Their Captain orders. I shudder, my breaths getting shorter and tighter in this claustrophobic chaos. I agree with One.

There's a low rumble behind us. It appears Central is coming…in tanks. I peer through my protectors and make out Klerkov and Pushkina being whisked to safety. Good. But it'll be minutes until they reach us through this crowd. I'll die here, and never reach the Games. It'll be too late-

But I underestimate the Capitol. The crowd's chanting turns to wails of despair as the first line of tanks plows into and _over_ the Capitol civilians.

And suddenly, the whole world goes to hell.

* * *

><p>I don't remember falling. One of the guards is on top of me, riot shield raised over both our heads. Foul-tasting, acrid gas spins through the air. I'm choking on phlegm and tears. An explosion ripples through the pavement and the whole damn city is <em>dancing.<em> People fall. Zips and _pings!_ followed by distant booms echo against the buildings. Glass shears and falls in deadly sheets to the streets below.

"Cease fire!" Captain commands. "Game One to Central, I said _cease fire! _Goddamnit, there's Tribies in this crowd!" Then for the first time in this whole ordeal, my rescuer goes pale.

"Sir, what the hell is happening-?"

"_They're not shooting!"_ He bellows.

"Sir-?"

"_Central isn't shooting_!"

"What do you mean they're not shooting!" I shout.

Captain is sweating profusely. His hands shake so bad he nearly drops the radio. "It isn't Central!"

The others stiffen. I'm too naïve to be afraid. "Then who is it!"

"Fucking Libertas!" Someone spits.

"Who's Libertas?" But Captain isn't answering any more. He's furiously shouting into his radio. Now I'm petrified. Even the crowd didn't scare these men, trained Capitol soldiers. Whoever this Libertas guy is, I really, really hope I don't meet him.

"The Resistance," The guard shielding me shouts in my ear. "Listen to me, honey, you've only got one shot at this-"

"Shot at what!"

"Shot at rescue!"

"Then get me out of here!" I plead.

"That's what they're trying to do!"

They. Not _we_. "What are you saying-?"

He grins. "Libertas! We're here to rescue you…but not from the _crowd_." No. _N'yet_. I'm not about to be someone else's pawn, too. In the Games, at least I have a chance of surviving. If some Resistance group takes me, the Capitol won't care if there's a Tribute involved or not. They'll quash the rebellion _whatever it takes_. They'll even go so far as to punish my entire District—

Game Security was right. The idea of being overwhelmed by this crowd terrifies me. But I'd prefer it to nuclear desolation, any day. _You picked the wrong Tribute_, I tell him wordlessly. _If you wanted to rescue someone with no chance of winning, you should've waited for Malcovitch._

But I'm not going to be anybody's pawn. Nobody's hostage. If Central can't rescue us, I'm not letting these Libertas nut jobs, either. And somewhere still out there, perhaps in the crowd, perhaps still on the train, Xavier Malcovtich is pissing his pants and silently screaming.

…and I told Malcovna I wouldn't let him suffer. "I'm sorry," I whisper. "I'm really, really, sorry." My liberator doesn't have time to respond before the butt of his rifle clocks him cleanly in the face.

* * *

><p>It really <em>is<em> like a stampede of cattle. Collectively, the crowd isn't all that intelligent. Dangerous, yes, but their attention is so focused on that tight-knit cluster of soldiers and the oncoming tanks they don't notice a girl with a gun slip into their ranks. It's only after I've ran two hundred meters towards the train that any one grows suspicious. Then it's just a simple matter of ramming the rifle into a face, stomach or groin and the problem solves itself.

"Malcovitch?" I cry to be heard. "_Malcovitch!_"

Behind me, gunfire still echoes wildly. The tanks continue their slow, squishing progress through the streets. Bones snap, people scream. But still the crowd presses on, their fury directed now against the Capitol forces. I've never before realized how petty the angry mob can be. Like a stampede, yes, but much, much more deadly. These animals don't just run, they fight back.

..._like me._

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Thanks to anonymous reviewers Forever Falcon and Lily hawthorn. Your comments are appreciated!<strong>


	12. The Wrench

**AN: ****This fic is rated T for violence and language.**

* * *

><p><strong>The Wrench<strong>

"Malcovitch?" I shout, "MALCOVITCH?"

I might as well be a bleating lamb in a den of wolves. Eyes glance. Heads turn. "Malcovitch!" I yell again, brandishing the rifle as best I can. I've never held one before, until today never seen one held properly unless on the vids. In District 6, rifles aren't a form of protection against other _people. _They're for rabid dogs, wild cats, and wolves. It shows. I'm not a dangerous soldier or Game Enforcer…I'm just an ugly girl with a gun.

But there's more to a gun than shooting, as they soon learn. I'm Petra Angelovna. Touch me, and die. I send a woman sprawling to the street. The man beside her bleeds brains when I bash his skull. It buys me a momentary pause, but still they come. _Butcher, Butcher, Butcher_…

"Malcovitch!" I shout again, still choking on tearing fumes. "Malcovitch!" I heave the muzzle into someone's sternum, my elbow into someone's groin. A hand finds my hair. _Goddamnit, not again!_ I wrench away, and feel the skin peel from my scalp.

_Think, Petra, think! Where would he go? _ Did the crowd carry him away? Did he just blend in, invisible-?

Another thought comes, more painful than the last: did he ever leave the train? I don't know Xavier Malcovitch. Only met him yesterday. But every gut instinct I've had about Cry baby has been right so far. He was too terrified to board. The smartest—and safest—thing to do in a child's eyes when confronted with that frenzied crowd would be to never disembark.

_Don't worry, Cry baby_, I tell him as I fight my way forward. _Petra Stone-heart is coming. It'll all be over soon._

* * *

><p>"Malcovitch!" My dry voice cracks. "Malcovitch?"<p>

I'm battered. Bruised. My nose is bloodied and my clothes are torn. But I'm almost there. Almost there. The train is just meters away, but already I can see I'm too late.

There's a feeding frenzy, like feral dogs around a fresh kill. And tossed in that mayhem of clutching hands and grasping fingers is the small, limp body of Xavier Malcovitch. They pull on hair, clothing, limbs, wrenching, jerking, twisting with enough force to dislocate bones and tear tendons in order to claim their prize.

I'm Petra Angelovna, and I swore I'd kill him. He trusted me, and I failed him.

* * *

><p>"<em>Drop him!" <em>Someone screams. "_Do it now!" _

The voice is panicked, shrill, and female. I don't realize it's mine until I feel the gunstock against my shoulder and the barrel in my fingers. It's shaking, but steady. I might not be able to shoot this thing, but I know how to act tough. When you stare a bull in the eye it's not about being able to overpower him, it's convincing him you _can_.

"Put him down!" I order again over the distant explosions and gunfire. "NOW!"

"It's her!"

"It's the Butcher!"

"_Get her_!"

More grey, choking gas. Bright, white light and terrible boom. I reel to my knees, gasping for air. I wipe my streaming eyes and claw blindly for my weapon. I'm deaf. Nearly blind. Utterly defenseless-

The crowd is dispersing like waves on a shore. The tanks drive them over us like breakers. They crash against the train and run panicked onto the tracks. I'm trampled underfoot by the horde as they outrun the cavalry closing in. A woman's skull bursts and cracks under the treads. Limbs are shredded into long, fleshy strings…

_There, my rifle!_ I slither forward, the only sound the ringing in my ears and my hammering heart. I have to reach that gun, have to protect myself, get to Malcovitch-

Men in black uniforms appear eerily out of the grey fog. We're saved. The Game Enforcers are here. _Central made it,_ my heart leaps. But still they come. One by one they raise their weapons. _Cease fire, there's Tribies in this crowd, there's Tribies in this crowd_, I repeat desperately.

They fire.

* * *

><p>Time stands still.<p>

"_NO!_" I feel the words rip through my throat. "_NO-!"_ Blood and brains splatter against the side of the train. Bodies stagger backwards and slide slowly down. "_NO!_ _MALCOVTICH, NO!"_

I press my fingers to my mouth, sobbing. I taste blood. The world is spinning, spinning, spinning and sick, my face is flushed, bowels churning, heart turned to fire in my chest. I haven't felt so crushed, so helpless, so goddamned weak since the day I watched Lilly die. _Don't name them, my Petra, if you're not strong enough,_ father said.

He was right: I wasn't. Never have been.

Rough arms grab me. Pull me to safety. I'm limp. Numb. My tired feet stumble between their marching steps. I don't know where they're taking me. I don't care. I failed. Failed a little boy I promised I would protect. Promised when it came time to die it would be my kindness, and no one else's cruelty, that took him. Now he's dead by firing squad. So much for all my promises.

Eerie shapes loom out of the poisonous fog. Train tracks. Tanks. Twisted, ruined bodies. Severed, reaching limbs. They speak on their radios. I don't listen. I can't hear. I don't care. Let it end, just let it end. Would that they drag me to the Arena immediately and not the false comforts of a warm, waiting bed.

My eyes are drawn, irresistibly, mercilessly, to the scene of that slaughter. Men in black Game uniforms prod callously through the heaps of bloody flesh. I watch, dully, as yet another corpse is tossed carelessly aside. _Don't watch, Petra. Don't watch_, something within me begs. But I must. Just as father made me all those years ago. _You have to watch, my Petra_, he said. _You have to know_.

And then-

Miraculous as birth, beautiful as sunlight, frightening as a fledgling's first flight something _stirs _in that grotesque pile of corpses. Under all that death, something lives. My heart stops, and Xavier Malcovitch is pulled from the carnage with a hoarse, hiccoughing cry.

"Malcovitch!" I shout, straining against my captors. "Malcovitch-!" His tiny face is awash with tears and blood. He blinks his eyes against the sun and fumes until they rest on me. A wordless cry escapes his mouth. Before Game Security can stop him, he wrests away.

Cry baby runs. He runs right to me.

I pick him up one-handedly and crush him to my chest. He shrieks in fear and betrayal. _Why, why, why_ Lily bleats. _Why would you let them hurt me?_

_I won't leave you I won't leave you I won't leave you again_, I promise as he sobs into my neck. _I'll stay right by your side, Cry baby. Right by your side until the second I kill you._


	13. The Aftermath

**AN: I'll be introducing several canon characters soon. I've dropped a hint for one of them in this chapter. See if you can find it!**

**This fic is rated T for violence and language.**

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><p><strong>The Aftermath<strong>

_...Chyort,_ do I need vodka.

They truck Malcovitch and I back in the tank formation. I overhear Game Enforcers ordering the Tributes from Districts 7 through 12 be brought in as well. No more fanfare. No more parades. No more disasters, and no more deaths. At least not yet—the Hunger Games will continue on schedule.

They let us out in a heavily guarded compound. I recognize the towering hotel where the Tributes are hosted. Malcovitch just buries his face between my breasts and shudders. We barely get to see Klerkov and Tasha before we're dragged away by Game Security. It's Just enough for a tight, teary hug from her and a cool, unreadable glance from my Mentor as he strokes his oiled beard.

The crowd was frightening, sure; but facing the aftermath alone without either of their aid seems more harrowing than the thought of the Hunger Games themselves. _I doubt you're a woman, either, Petra Angelovna._ I feel strangely like a child. I need answers. Guidance. Direction. Does the Capitol know about the Resistance? Will I be held responsible? What about the people I injured, even _killed-_?

And most of all, if I somehow make it out of this alive, have I lost my Mentor's aid? Klerkov's champion wouldn't have lost her temper and attacked a man, and she sure as hell wouldn't've gone back for Malcovitch. I'm Petra Stoneheart, and I just committed a cardinal sin: I _felt._

Cry baby squeezes my hand questioningly. He looks up at me for reassurance. "It'll be fine," I lie to him. "We'll see them in a bit." I made the mistake of making Xavier Malcovitch my pet. I won't let him be the death of me.

* * *

><p>We walk until our feet are sore. Mine and the escort, that is. Cry baby seems to have momentarily forgotten the use of his legs. Every attempt to set him down has elicited shrill whimpering and his body going completely limp. "Where are you taking us?" I demand the Game Security force. "Tell me."<p>

"You were assaulted," A female guard says stiffly. "You will submit to full medical exams."

"Why?" I press.

One eyebrow raises in cold scrutiny. Ordinarily, her uniform and countenance combined would be enough to cow me. But after a day with Tasha Pushkina's severe expressions, I've become immune. "You will be assessed for physical handicaps or limitations," she continues icily.

"Why?" I ask again. I've seen Tributes sent to the Arena in leg casts before. The Capitol doesn't give a damn about health or safety, so what's going on?

"It is Game Ordinance." She recites with such forceful finality I give it up. Clearly, not all Capitol women are vapid, brainless bimbos. Some of them can act the complete _bitch._

* * *

><p>They take Malcovitch. I'm not comfortable with it, but sour-face states something about Game Ordinance. I lie and say it will be okay. "It's just a medic," I tell him. "It'll be fine." Warily he lets them lead him away, neck craned back to watch me until he is out of sight.<p>

Just a medic. Right. I haven't been to see one since I was nine. If there's one thing I've learned, it's never to trust a man with a needle.

The guards sign me over to the nurses. They lead me to a tiny, claustrophobic cell with a curtain. For a moment I panic, thinking it's a prison, not a hospital, but I am carelessly flung a robe and told to strip. Completely.

I take off my clothes, wincing as sore joints and bruises begin to edge their way to the forefront. The adrenaline is wearing off and the pain is eating through now that the danger is over. I take of my underthings and inspect my body. Ribs scoured, knees bruised, and lots of long, jagged cuts across my fingers, neck, and face. None are deep, and few bled. My scalp is raw and tender from the tugging, and blood cakes the back of my neck.

I decide that the moment my interview is over, I'm shaving my head. Period. I don't have that long of hair, but I'm not about to get caught and killed in the Arena over something as stupid as vanity.

_Right, Petra_, I snort. _Because you were so beautiful to begin with._

* * *

><p>I'm taken to a sterile room with blue walls and bright, eye-watering lights. There are no windows, just a cold, metal table sitting solitary in the center of the room. The nurses are waiting, wearing starched white uniforms, but it doesn't stop the Capitol in them from showing through. Many have plumes in their hair, and bright colors swirling under their painted on brows. One even has full scale alterations done to her face, neck, and the back of her hands. Combined with her cold, yellow eyes, she looks as fierce and unfeeling as a snake. I shudder.<p>

"Sit," the serpent instructs me. I comply. They hook me up to machines to monitor my heart rate. They hover menacingly. I start to sweat.

"Where's Tasha?" I ask. "Why isn't she here?"

I am ignored. "I asked you a question!" I demand. "Why can't my Chaperone be here?" Regardless of how small or powerless she might be, I've never wanted to see anyone more in my entire life than I want Tasha Pushkina right now. I hate medics. I hate clinics. And I hate having to wear this goddamned gown. I might as well be naked.

"She's ready," serpent says. "Send for the medic."

* * *

><p>I can't catch a break today. They don't even send me a <em>female<em> medic. He's probably thirty, incredibly slim, with short brown hair and green eyes flecked with gold, I curse myself for noticing. He also has long eyelashes, although nothing compared to Cry baby's. Great, just great. A goddamned _attractive _doctor.

I flush, and pull my gown tighter around my neck. What sort of idiot made these things to open to the _front_, anyways? But there's no need-rich, Capitol men with looks like that don't take second glances at girls like me. Hell, they don't even take firsts, unless forced to.

He assesses me once, eyes traveling from my bare feet to my face, but he never once looks into my eyes. "District 6," he says to no one in particular. "Female. Eighteen years of age. One hundred and eighty-three centimeters, eighty-one point five kilograms." _A voice recorder,_ I suddenly understand, _he's speaking instead of writing._

I look up at him, but again he avoids my gaze. It's not even intentional—it's _habit._ I've seen it before, when farmers bring their livestock to market and father and I go inspect. He expects us to be killed, and refuses to make attachments. He's Victor Ivan Klerkov and Tasha Pushkina, only colder. They hid behind drug-induced stupor. He has simply ceased to consider us human at all.

District 6, female. That's all I am to him, a number and a gender. He didn't even so much as introduce himself. He wants to remain as anonymous as he's made me. With that realization, I'm suddenly cold. I miss my Drunk and my Addict even more so than my home.


	14. The Inspection

**AN: ****This fic is rated T for violence and language.**

* * *

><p><strong>The Inspection<strong>

Sterile room. Empty air. The circulators drone and so does my medic. They photograph and document my wounds from head to feet. No one says a word about how I got them. "Post-traumatic exposure exam completed," he continues in monotone. "We will now complete standard physical inspection. Disrobe."

I blink. _Haven't I already?_

"Nurse," he says simply, and the serpent strips the gown from my shoulders before I can move to stop her. I gasp in shock and cover myself, but everyone in the room got a good look.

First Malcovitch, then Klerkov, now this doctor. I flush scarlet from my face to my feet. I know I'm not much to look at—as Klerkov noted drily—but this robot doesn't so much as _respond._ Maybe it's just a medical procedure to him, or maybe he's seen worse, but the sight of my bare breasts doesn't even merit a prolonged or second look. "Underdeveloped female," he continues as though nothing had happened. "Tanner stage 3-"

I'm already in trouble. I really should be cooperative. But I want my Chaperone and I want answers and I'm sick and tired of the silent treatment. "If you don't like my breasts, just say so." I say as I slouch back into the sleeves of the robe.

He blinks. "You know what the Tanner score is?"

"No," I scowl, "but I know an _insult_ when I hear one."

"It's a medical assessment." He insists, then drops his voice back to its emotionless state and succinctly ignores me. "Nurse, prep her for the pelvic inspection."

"You're a _mudak_. Assess _that._ And what the hell are you doing-!" He's pulled out a dangerous looking metal contraption that has no business being used with the words pelvic inspection. It looks like a hip spreader for calving season.

"A full-body entrance physical," he returns blandly. "Nurse, sedative-"

Syringe. "What the hell is that!"

"An injection. " The serpent hisses. "This will sting-"

I deal with knives and death for a living, but if there's one thing on this world I can't stand, it's _needles_. I grab her wrist and struggle. "Get that away from me-!"

But the medic ignores us. He continues his droll interview. "Age at onset of mensus?"

"What?"

"At what age did you start your menstrual cycles?" He asks.

_Menstrual what? _ Then I figure what he's talking about and flush crimson. In District 6, you don't discuss this sort of thing around men. Ever. "Why the hell would you want to know?" I ask, aghast. But I still don't drop the hand wielding that syringe.

"Age." He repeats.

"Thirteen," I glower, still grappling with snake-face for control of the sedative. I'm stronger, sure, but her scaled wrist is slimy and slippery. She wrests out of my grip again.

"Number of pregnancies and viability at term?"

I flush, indignant. "I've never-"

"Given patient demographics we will screen for STI's as well." He finishes into his recorder. "Nurse, restraints-"

Restraints. My heart begins to hammer. I've butchered animals since I was seven. Restrains are never, ever, the harbingers of anything good. "Don't you fucking dare," I hiss to her.

A second and a third join her. The fourth makes the mistake of reclining the table and pulling out the _stirrups._

* * *

><p><em>Petra Angelovna, what the hell are you doing? <em> I'm not so certain. But three things I do know with finality are 1) I am NOT getting an injection, 2) I am NOT getting tied down and raped with that tool, and 3) I'm totally, completely, and utterly fucked no matter what I do next. There was a moment I might have been able to back out of this gracefully. No longer.

Three nurses stand petrified, and snake-face is sobbing with the syringe stuck straight through the side of her neck. I've got an arm hooked around her torso, and a hand against the plunger. From the sound of shrieking, shouts, and intermittent crashes coming from the hall, it appears Cry baby encountered similar hostility. It enrages me more. He's just a little kid. Doesn't know how to stand up for himself. I never should have let him go.

From now on, I trust my instincts. "Bring Malcovitch to me," I snap. "Now!"

For the first time in this whole ordeal, the medic seems more than just vaguely aware of my presence. You take a staff member hostage and start making demands, and suddenly you're the center of attention. His voice is stern, but polite. "Miss, I'm going to ask you to get back on the examination table before I alert security."

He wanted to sedate and restrain me against my will. _We're past being polite, shithead_. "Go fuck yourself. No way in hell am I getting back on the rape chair." I glare down at him. "I want Malcovitch. Now."

The medic blinks. He turns to the remaining staff. "Go get him," he orders. "Quickly."

Snakeface begins to sob, her neck throbbing against the cold glass of the syringe. Fat, round, red drops of blood begin to ooze. Her crying is shrill and grating, and it can't move me to sympathy. I'm Petra Stoneheart, the Butcher's daughter. If anything, it just infuriates me further."Shut up!" I snarl."You're making it worse for yourself. " But that's not enough to calm her, and the medic's eyes, although still cool, are watching the hand on the plunger in earnest.

I think I understand. "If it's not anything dangerous, why the hell are you all so scared?" I snarl.

"That dose is titrated to you," he explains calmly. "It's effects might prove stronger in a person with less body mass."

"And what effects, exactly?" I demand.

"Muscular paralysis, CNS depression, with possible decompensation of the respiratory drive." He enumerates.

"Would it kill her?" I press.

"Possibly."

A sour feeling rises from my stomach. "And you were going to let them use it on me?"

"The odds of the same lethal effects in someone of your stature are negligible."

"Goddamnit, talk so I can understand you!" I shout.

He blinks again. "It likely wouldn't harm you," he says after a long pause.

"Likely?" I spit. "Possibly? You're a doctor. I thought you were supposed to be smart. So tell me, is there anything you actually _know_?"

"I know you're concerned for your counterpart," he answers carefully. "I also know you're bluffing about hurting her. Why don't you let her go?"

"Wrong," I put the tiniest traction against the syringe. "Guess again."

"I know if you were to harm a member of my staff, you would earn a great deal of trouble," he continues with gravity. "And that is not something you would want."

"Are you blind?" I snap. "Did you even watch the vids today? I'm going to the Hunger Games. The Capitol can't punish me anymore than they already are."

"They can change the odds," he counters simply, "and assure you have no chance of surviving in the Arena. They can blacklist you from sponsorship. Torture you. Even kill you outright, and require another from your District to take your place. Trust me, Tribute," his flecked green eyes are sad, "You have more to lose than you know."

I blink. But before I can respond the door bursts open and the disgruntled nurses return, dragging Xavier Malcovitch underarm. Their faces and hands are scratched and bloodied, and one sports what looks suspiciously like a bite mark deep in the flesh of her left forearm.

I can't help but smile. He might be small and weak, but he has the advantage. They're only trying to restrain a child. Xavier Malcovitch is fighting for his life. He perks up when he sees me, and redoubles his squirming. "Hey, Cry baby," I whisper.

'The boy is here," the medic continues. "As you can see, he is unharmed."

I nod to the nurses. "Make them go away."

"Leave us," he orders, without so much as a glance in their direction. Xavier Malcovitch runs to me the second he's free and plants his face in my ass. Again.

"You okay?" I ask him. Cry baby nuzzles his nose deep into my hip.

"Any further demands?" The medic inquires, inching forward cautiously. "Will you let my nurse go, now?"

I chew my tongue, thinking. The medic's in charge, and if I'm right, possibly sympathetic. He hasn't called security yet, and my instincts tell me he isn't going to, so long as I comply. I want out of here. I want to live. I want Tasha Pushkina, my father, and a train ride home...

...in short, I have to win the Hunger Games. And if that means toeing the line to get into the Arena alive, so be it. Game Ordinance might dictate we both get physicals, but I'm willing to bet it doesn't say a damn thing about how they're done. "Just one more," I state, pulling the needle slowly from snakeface's flesh. "_Respect_. It's your job, fine. I don't like mine, either. But if you have to inspect us like cattle, you're going to have the decency to give us some privacy and you'd damn well better use our names…and you move so much as a finger towards my privates I'll put a band around your balls so tight they turn black and fall off within the week, got it?"


	15. The Exam

**AN: The fanfiction audience in general is nearly 90% female. We talk about boys, we talk about books, we talk about shoes and shopping, we talk about awkward first kisses, failed or budding romance and we talk about sex. We portray friends, boyfriends, girlfriends, and motherhood, but I've yet to come across a fic that even begins to discuss another integral aspect of our (and our characters'!) lives as females: the medical field.**

**So I, Lasgalendil, hereby dedicate this chapter to every girl who's ever had to put up with annoying health care personnel asking, "are you sexually active?" then writing 'yes' in the chart regardless of the answer. PAP smears save lives, ladies. They also **_**suck. **_

**This fic is rated T for violence and language. Warning: this chapter contains invasive medical procedures.**

* * *

><p><strong>The Exam<strong>

"My apologies," the medic says mildly the moment snakeface slips through the door. "I didn't realize you were intelligent."

I cross my arms. "And that's supposed to make a difference?"

"The average age-adjusted IQ disparity between Capitol and some Districts' children is nearly forty points," he explains levelly. "It's been my experience that such children are less comfortable with forced conversation than they are will the physical exam. Clearly, in this case I've misjudged."

In my case, yes; with Malcovitch, I'm not so sure he isn't right. "So it's alright to treat people like animals if they can't live up to your standards," I squeeze Cry baby's shoulder. "I get it. You're an over-educated, elitist pig in addition to being a Capitalist cocksucker."

He runs a gloved hand through his short-cropped hair with a sigh. "You're wrong, miss. I find it easier to treat people like animals when that's how they're _accustomed _to being treated. Especially when they're about to die," he corrects.

"Too bad for you, then." I snort. "Because this _animal_ isn't about to die at all. I'm Petra Angelovna, and I'm going to win the Hunger Games. He's Xavier Malcovitch." I nod to Cry baby. It's not much in the way of greeting, but it's politer than it could have been. Even Malcovitch eyes him expectantly for an introduction.

"I?" He blinks, taken aback. "A doctor in the employ of the Capitol given the honor to serve the exclusive clientele of the Hunger Games. Does that suffice?" He grimaces, then shakes his head. "But the misfortunate one is you, Petra Angelovna. If you'd had decent nutrition and education, I'm fairly certain you could've been a genius."

That, quite possibly, might be the first compliment I've ever received from a man. And, albeit only a hypothetical one, he's very handsome. I'm unprepared. And a little bit shocked. My long list of preformed insults has no repartee for this situation. I feel suddenly shy. Hell, I might be _blushing_. "Ha," I snort, with an attempt at humor to sound braver than I feel. "Next thing you'll be telling me I'd be pretty as well."

"Further developed, possibly," he amends. "But your bone structure precludes you from societal standards."

My warm, fuzzy feeling of infinitesimal femininity fades instantly."Don't you know how to take a joke?" I snap.

"I was unaware one was being told."

"Me being pretty's not a joke?" I demand. "How much vodka have you had this morning?"

"The ads you see in the Districts feature a small minority of women with a certain skeletal structure and facial proportions," he explains, tone light but somber. "Even then there is an extensive editing process before the images reach the consumer. There are beautiful people in the world, Petra Angelovna, but they're far more rare than you might think. Even in the Capitol," he states. "Which means the converse must be true as well: you're not as disproportionate as you've been led to believe."

_Disproportionate?_ I miss just being plain old _ugly_. "Now you're just being insulting."

"Perhaps you're just feeling insulted," he suggests. "I've challenged your defense mechanism. It's only natural to experience hostility."

From behind me, Xavier Malcovtich lets out an untimely giggle. While the content of our conversation is above him, he still finds the interaction entertaining. Hell, come to think of it, so do I.

* * *

><p>"Alright, then, Mr. Medic-Doctor-person, I'd love to listen to your thoughts on my incomparable beauty all day, but Malcovitch and I are tired. And hungry. I want something to eat and someplace to sleep and some time to prepare for the stupid Chariot ride." I conclude theatrically. "What do we have to do to get out of here?" <em>Just toe the line, Petra. Toe the line and you'll get to see Tasha and Klerkov soon enough…<em>

He gestures to the exam table with the slightest hint of a smile. "I have to finish documenting your physical exams."

"So where does that leave us?"

"At an impasse," he declares gravely. "My duties as Games Medic are quite clear. Were you to consider reneging on your threat of castration, Petre Angelovna, we could continue at your leisure."

I shake my head violently."No way. I am _not_ sitting in the rape chair."

"It's a standard gynecological evaluation, not an assault," the medic corrects me sharply. "The chair is designed to maximize comfort both for the patient and performing physician alike."

I cast a squeamish glance to that ominous table. "Why?"

"It's a requirement." He informs me. "Game Ordinance."

"Why?" I press again.

He stares at me helplessly as though he'd never considered it before. "I suppose because an untreated infection or an unacknowledged tubal or uterine pregnancy would be considered a serious metabolic disadvantage in the Arena."

I wrinkle my nose. "_So-?_"

"So," he continues, "It's a Tribute's fundamental right to receive proper medical care for any debilitating condition that could be construed as a disability. I also suppose potential Sponsors want to ensure their investments are sound."

"I'm _not_ pregnant." I insist.

"How can you be sure?" He asks seriously.

I cross my arms. "I'm not stupid." I've grown up around animals. I know where babies _come from._

Again, the faintest trace of a smile crosses his lips. "I hear the same from many Capitol women of all ages every day, Petra Angelovna. But fertility and intellect, as I explain to them, are unfortunately separate issues."Behind me, there's a clatter as Xavier Malcovitch knocks over a tray. Metal instruments tinker across the tile, and the medic observes him thoughtfully. "It's only forceps," he finally says. "It won't hurt if he touches them."

He turns back to face me, intent."Can't you just…lie?" I ask weakly.

"I don't lie. Not when it comes to my patients' health." He informs me with a look as though I'd insulted his professional dignity.

"You didn't alert security about our incident earlier," I remind him.

"That was omission, Petra Angelovna, not falsification of medial records—of a _Tribute,_ no less. That is an offense I could lose not only my license for, but my tongue as well. The Capitol tends to take these Games…quite seriously." He shudders, but when he speaks again his tone is firm. "I don't want to involve security, Petra Angelovna," he says sternly, "but believe me when I say I will."

_Toe the line, Petra. Just tone the goddamned line…do whatever it takes to see Tasha and Klerkov and get into that Arena alive and sponsored._

"Fine," I flush. I'd rather go willingly than tied down and drugged with an audience, anyway. "But if anybody even _thinks_ the words restraints, needles, or pussy, I'm reneging on reneging, got it?" I raise a brow Tasha Pushkina-style and stare him directly in the eye. _You don't have to have the strength to overpower the bull_, my father said. _You just have to have the strength to convince him that you _can.

* * *

><p>I sit gingerly on the table, swinging my feet and wishing for Tasha Pushkina's reassuring voice and smile. It's foolish. She couldn't stop this, but somehow her poised presence feels protective all the same. Victor Ivan Klerkov might be physically intimidating and more useful in a fight, but my mind wishes him out of Panem for the moment. I think I'd rather ride the Chariot <em>naked <em>this evening than have my Mentor walk in. _Again._

The supply table is almost full now, I note unpleasantly. "I usually have the nursing staff to help me," he apologizes, spreading viscous jelly against the metal spreader. "This process is easier with two sets of hands."

"It's a hell of a lot worse with two sets of _eyes_," I point out, still regarding the tool with as much distrust as I had for that needle. Between the two, I don't know which is worse, anything sharp and pointy, or anything of whatever dullness intended to be shoved up…_there._

He sees my look, and tries to distract me as best he can. "What's his story?" he gestures to Malcovitch, suddenly successful in grasping one pair of the metal forceps with another. He smiles up at me from the floor proudly, large eyes shining. _Look what I can do!_ those eyes say better than any words ever could.

I shrug, stomach churning with nervousness."He didn't say."

The medic nods appreciatively."What _does _he say?"

"Nothing, as far as I know."

He frowns."Did you know him from before?"

'Before the Reaping?" I ask, "I guess it's possible I'd seen him." Before my sisters sickened, and again after they'd died, father would often give out wastage to the poor. Blood sausages, head cheese, _salo_, even organs and feet if the season had been good to us. Suddenly I understand why he chased the dogs away—he saved the scraps for the starving.

I turn to watch the pitiful boy so taken with his new-found playthings. _I'm sorry, Cry baby, if I was ever the reason you had to go hungry._

* * *

><p>"Everything's ready," He informs me briskly. "Are you comfortable?"<p>

"What sort of shitheaded question is that? Of course not," I protest, slouching back against the seat in glum resignation. "Let's just get this over with."He hands me a rough white sheet. I accept it hesitantly, with no idea what to do next. "What's this for?"

"It's a drape," he explains.

Adults never actually listen to a question the first time, I've found. He proves no exception."Yeah, I see that," I reply. "But what's it _for_?"

He blinks in surprise. "Modesty, of course."

"Let me get this straight: you want to me to let you put your fingers up my genitals and you're worried about modesty?" I ask, staring him straight in the eye again. "Please. If I'm going to let a man touch me down there for 'medical reasons' you can be damn sure I'm going to keep an eye on him."

"You, you don't want the drape?" He asks meekly. There's a slight sheen of sweat to his skin.

"Fuck the drape," I tell him. "I don't want the _exam."_

He sighs, suddenly looking as nervous as I feel. He gestures to Malcovitch with the spreader. "Are you sure you want him here?"

Xavier Malcovitch watches us with mingled suspicion and mild fascination as I place my feet in the stirrups. I shrug. "Nothing he hasn't seen before." Or Klerkov, for that matter, but given the situation I try not to think about it.

…too late. I thought about it. _Ew_.

"Please," the medic pleads, "This is-"

"Awkward?" I snort, staring at the ceiling, pulling the robe snug across my chest. "I'm the one with fingers up her ass."

'Technically it's the-"

"Ouch!" I snarl. It _hurts_. "You could've warned me!"

"No evidences of fistula or growth in vaginal mucosa.," he comments blandly, avoiding my gaze. This time, however, it's purposeful. I might be the one on the table, but he's the only one _blushing_. "No vaginal trauma, scarring, or fluids present. Cervix is-oh," he ends abruptly.

"Oh, what?"

"It's just…not something typically seen in a girl of your age and socioeconomic status." He clears his throat. "Cervix is visible, hymen intact. No adnexal tenderness. Ovaries palpable bilaterally with no cystic lesions."

"What, did you think because I'm poor that I'm a whore? Please," I snort as the exam is mercifully finished and my knees back together. "Does this look like the sort of body men would pay money to fuck?"

* * *

><p>I've never been more happy to see clothes in my life. I feel dirty, violated, and a little bit nauseous. I get the whole physical attraction thing, but suddenly now I feel like I haven't missed out on much. If that was 'just' a medical procedure, then sex must be the most awkward and painfully embarrassing act the human race has ever inflicted on itself.<p>

_You can count me out_, I tell the world as I slip into my pants. _Even with—make that _especially with_—that fit physician_. Gorgeous green eyes or not. that encounter was entirely too personal. Vaguely I wonder how it is married people can stand to face each other in the morning.


	16. The Medic

**The Medic**

**AN: The Hunger Games is 'soft' science fiction, meaning the emphasis is more on the societal sciences like psychology, sociology, and political science. Collins attempts her hand at more 'hard' science with the muttations, and in homage to that I've taken a few liberties to make them more realistic.**

* * *

><p>I return from the dressing stall to find Malcovitch sitting calmly on the exam table, sucking the ear buds of the medic's stethoscope. He's got one arm held out gingerly, supported by the medic's steady hand.<p>

…the other hand is cleaning the inside of Malcovitch's elbow with a sterile dressing patch. _Look out, Xavier. You're about to get a shot._

He beams when he sees me, and attempts to stand. The medic stops him with a strong hand on his shoulder. "Not yet, Mr. Malcovitch."

"How'd you do that?" I ask, breaking our awkward silence. "How'd you get him to sit up there?" I haven't seen Malcovitch so blissfully calm since before breakfast this morning, and there's not a familiar face in sight.

"I asked," the medic shrugs, looking me straight in the eyes. "Perhaps you were more right than you knew, Petra Angelovna, when you spoke about respect."

I flush, both in embarrassment over the earlier incident of demanding respect while holding snakeface hostage, and a little for how aware he's been of me. He's good-looking, confident, complimented me twice and actually listened to what I said. I'm used to being mistaken for a child. It's both frightening and flattering to find a man willing to see me as a woman.

…_too bad he's also the medic who just had a good, long look up your vagina, Petra,_ I remind myself. But all mutual trust and whatever else I'm feeling is shot to hell when I see the waiting syringes laying on the tray beside the table. Two of each, and two large bags filled with amber fluid. One for Cry baby, one for _me_. My heart hammers, my face pales, and my vision begins to tunnel. I nearly faint. I think I'd rather be back on that table with my knees spread and Victor-fucking-Ivan _Klerkov _watching. "What's that for?" I ask weakly.

"Vitamin and gamma globulin infusion," he states. "Bloodwork reveals multiple chronic deficiencies. It's my estimation that yours will as well, although your protein and iron levels should be well within normal. His…were startling even after examination."

I knew he was small. Underfed. I didn't realize how much so. I turn to face Cry baby, both out of pity and a desire to look at anything but that long array of needles. He smiles up at me, a small string of drool leaking from the corner of his mouth. "How bad?"

"With winter coming? Even with standard tessare fare, weeks, perhaps months, to live." The medic says sadly. "Refined carbohydrates and oils can only carry the body so far. It requires substantial amounts of protein and essential micronutrients in order to survive."

He sounds like one of them, with his hissing s's and strange inflection, but the words he speaks and the tone are far too familiar. _He isn't one of them_, I realize. _He's like us._ Working in the Capitol as one of their dogs, sending us to the slaughter…it's little wonder he didn't share his name. "Which District?" I ask.

He blinks. "Pardon?"

"Which District were you from?"

He swallows nervously. "I'm Capitol born and bred. But I did an internship in District 12 during my training."

12? The poorest, most squalid, disease-ridden District. They say from there you can see the smoke still rising from District 13, and it's the nuclear radiation that keeps their crops from growing, even now, nearly seventy-five years later. "Why?"

"There was something I had to see."

"Like what?"

"The truth," he states simply. "Come, sit. You'll need to be infused as well."

* * *

><p><em>Watch it, Petra. It won't be so bad, just a little poke-<em>

I tried. I really tried. But the second the needle pierced the skin of Cry baby's pale arm I found myself on my hands and knees, retching up the stringy remains of my forgotten breakfast.

My stomach heaves and heaves and heaves, and it's all I can do just to simply _breathe._ My face is hot, long threads of phlegm cake my chin, my lips, and my hair. I took on getting Reaped, a mob, and a pelvic exam without the slightest show of fear, and a fucking needle brings me to my knees. I find myself hoping this medic keeps everything as confidential as he claims—I can't afford the Careers knowing all it takes to bring down Petra Angelovna is a simple _vaccine_.

_Damnit, Petra, get a grip-!_ But when I finally look up, that needle is still buried in Xavier's squirming flesh, and fat drops of blood leak slowly from the site. I let out a hiccoughing burp and cough up more skinny strings of saliva. Staring at the floor and wiping my face with my sleeve, I wonder what Klerkov would think of his champion now.

When I get the nerve to look up again, Cry baby is watching me, curiosity and concern written all over his face, one ear-piece of the stethoscope still hanging forgotten from his mouth. "Oh, shut up, Cry baby," I grumble. The medic watches me coolly.

"You too," I snap.

"It's nothing to be ashamed of," he explains, unconcernedly. "Many people even in the medical field suffer vasovagal syncope at the sight of blood."

"It's not, not blood," I gasp. "Just…just _needles_."

* * *

><p>"Is this really necessary?" I plead, hugging Cry baby to my chest as I sit again on that thrice-damned chair. "I mean, we don't even know if my levels are low."<p>

His green and gold-flecked eyes fill momentarily with sadness. "You're from the Districts. The levels are always low, Petra Angelovna. And you will need all the immunity I can give you before heading into that Arena." Then he smiles. "But if you wish to be certain, I can always draw blood as well."

I groan. "Just do it."

He has me lay back so if I pass out, I won't fall. Cry baby nestles his face contentedly on my chest, fidgeting with the taped on IV site. I shut my eyes in the semblance of maintaining my dignity. The medic grabs my trembling arm with steady hands, and deftly cleans the inside of my elbow. I feel the alcohol cool my skin, gentle as a kiss. Alcohol—that's what this whole process needs. Give me a bottle of vodka and all the anxiety would just melt away-

There's a sharp pain stabbing into my bone. I cringe and clutch Cry baby so tightly he grunts in surprise and squeals. Then-

"That's it?" I ask weakly.

"That's it," the medic confirms. "Now just let it infuse."

I open one eye. "Then no more needles?"

He shakes his head, amused. "Then six more."

_Fuck. Fuckety-fuck fuck fuck fuck and fuck._

* * *

><p>To my relief, I'm not the only one who doesn't relish any more shots. When the needles come out of our arms, Cry baby decides instantly that he's done with this now, thank you very much, and promptly becomes as fussy and uncooperative as an infant. My own stomach is still to queasy to growl in hunger, but my body is fatigued. It's growing late in the morning, and it's been hours since we've eaten.<p>

"Cry baby, sit still," I command after the third shot. I have my eyes closed and my arms crossed over his frail chest, but even then he cries and kicks miserably. These ones are with the normal needles, the medic explains to me. He couldn't mix them with the gamma globules or whatever the hell they were called, so he couldn't put them in with the 'soft needles' that didn't hurt so bad. He also has to inject them slowly, so they don't burn the veins.

But if there's anything worse than six shots, it's anticipating them. "Isn't there a quicker way?" I complain. Xavier Malcovitch's thrashing is doing nothing for my nerves.

The medic's voice comes from far away. I might have to lay down again. "It can be injected IM, but in bolus form it stings."

"What the hell. Do it." I up-end Cry baby, one arm snaking between his back and elbows, the other behind his knees. I lock my fingers over my legs, and Xavier Malcovitch is trapped, immobile, with his ass just inches from my face. He screams, and cries, and struggles, but to no avail. He's stuck ass-upwards and miserable, as my childhood experiences with medics and nurses always were.

The medic blinks, impressed. "You're had pediatric experience?"

"Hell no." I don't even know what pediatric means. I try to think back to what little schooling I've had_. Peds…doesn't that mean feet?_ "But after you've castrated a couple hundred boar pig, a thirty kilo kid doesn't put up that much of a struggle for vaccines."

"Not vaccines. Vitamins," he corrects. Cry baby lets out a shriek so loud my ears are ringing. I grip him reassuringly. _Just two more, Cry baby. Just two more and it'll all be over. I won't them hurt you again._

"Why no vaccines?"

"You can get an influenza-like reaction," the medic explains as Malcovitch sobs. "Myalgias, fever, even fatigue. It's ill-advised to do so close to the Games in under-nurished or otherwise disadvantaged Tributes."

"The weak." I finish.

"That, and other reasons," he continues darkly.

"What other reasons?"

"Petra Anglovna, tell me, did you have your childhood vaccinations?"

"Well, some of them." _Until I got big enough that the Capitol nurses learned what 'no' meant._

"And how did you afford them?"

I have to think for a moment. We were so poor back then..."They were free."

The medic sneers. "And did it never strike you as odd, Petra Anglovna, that the Capitol that kills children should care that the masses be vaccinated?"

"When you raise a herd of cattle, you want as many of them alive for profit," I shrug. "It makes sense."

"The same Capitol that lets them _starve_?" he presses.

Now he has my attention. "What are you saying?"

"What I'm saying, Petra Angelovna, is beware the Tracker Jackers."

I blink. "What?"

"Tracker Jackers. It's a myth that their venom kills. Do you know how they were discovered?" He asks. My silence answers for itself. "Three centuries ago, wasp venom was used as a component in the TB and pneumonia vaccines. Medics then noted that the children of affluent families were more likely to have adverse or fatal effects when exposed to wasp venom than those who would ordinarily be considered more at risk due to sanitation or nutrition issues."

I nod, but I'm not sure I follow. "What are you saying?"

"What I'm saying, Petra Angelovna, is that my profession, which takes an oath to do no harm, inadvertently discovered a fact which the Capitol has been using as a tool of subjugation for the Districts and that _thousands_ of healthy, innocent children have died from it by simply playing outside," his flecked eyes glint angrily. "Tracker Jacker venom can't kill you, even now days when it's been concentrated nearly a million times by DNA recombination. It's a hallucinogen, yes. The pain from shock can kill you if you receive enough stings, certainly. But the lethal swelling is due to anaphylaxis. Allergy. And allergies can only occur when someone has had previous exposure."

My eyes widen. "They _infect_ us?"

"Your vaccinations give your immune system the pre-formed antibodies to fight the venom. In this case, get enough venom, and your body releases so much histamine the angioedema causes dry drowning," he continues academically, but his voice is thick. He's seen it happen, I realize. He watched kids in District 12 die. Really die, and not just on the Vids for the Hunger Games, either. Real patients—real people—just like _us._

…_that's why he didn't want to know our names_, I suddenly understand_. Not because he cares too little. It's because he cares too_ much.

"They changed the vaccine formula nearly a century ago for Capitol children," he continues sadly. "It's only in the Districts where the hives serve as a form of control where the original serum is still used."

* * *

><p><strong>AN: One of the best things about this website is the inter-author interaction we get with the review and PM features. As of this chapter, there's been over 400 visitors to this story: are you all ready to do your share? I don't mean a review for me—there's new author on fanfiction who has started her own Hunger Games fics! She's been nice enough to follow this story, and asked for some help getting some Tributes for her SYOT. If you're a SYOT story fan and have an OC you'd love to share with her or any constructive adviceencouragement for a beginning writer, could you please check out kc000xoxo's fic Each and Every One Can Die? **


	17. The Enlightenment

**The Enlightenment**

**AN: Dear readers, all political/ethical views expressed by characters in this fic represent ONLY the views of that character, and not the author. I only write the story down, people. I have absolutely no control over what happens when to whom or why.**

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><p>The moment I let him up, Xavier Malcovitch makes it clear he absolutely <em>despises <em>me. He's no longer an adorable _mishka_ or _zaychik,_ he's a murderous bear who'd rather kill than cuddle me. And, just to spite me, he runs to the man who gave him the injections and clings to his legs the way he used to latch onto mine, nuzzling his nose into the medic's thigh. Our physican looks quite uncomfortable with this newest development-whether embarrassed or pain from having his genitals inadvertently crushed I can't tell. He pats Xavier's head awkwardly in an attempt to comfort him. "It's alright, Mr. Malcovitch. You're done now."

"Don't be a such a Cry baby," I call to him. But it's haughtiness, not hurt, that glares up at me out of those accusing dark eyes. I ignore him. _Good,_ I try to think. _It's not like I wanted to play nurse-maid anyways_. But the rejection still stings, and I don't like it. _Don't get so attached, Petra. If he hates you, it'll make killing him easier._

Then it's my turn. And looking down at Cry baby's insolent stare, I realize there's something I need to do. "Let me do it." I insist as the medic swabs my arm again.

"What?"

"I have to win the Hunger Games," I explain, gritting my teeth. "So give me the goddamned needles and point me to the nearest vein."

He opens his mouth to counter me, but to my surprise he relents. "Give it IM. It'll be faster."

"What does that even stand for?"

"Intramuscular."

The thought of injecting my own ass is about as obscenely absurd as it would be nearly impossible: I'm not exactly buxom either fore or aft. Even twisting I can't get a good view. "And just how am I supposed to do that? I don't know if you'd noticed, but my ass is back there." I gesture with my thumb. "I might be a girl, but I'm not _that_ flexible."

The slightest trace of a smile again washes across his face. "You have larger body mass than a pediatric patient. Might I suggest the upper thigh instead?"

* * *

><p>So for the third time today I'm laying on this stupid table. At least this time I still have my pants on, even if they're around my knees.<p>

"You don't have to do this," the medic says, placing the first syringe in my hand. My eyes are still shut tight. _This is going to hurt_, something deep within me protests.

_No shit, Petra. You'll be lucky to stay conscious_. Call it stupidity, call it stubbornness, call it closure, when I look at Xavier Malcovitch there's just something I have to know: is Petra Stone-heart strong enough? Can she do what needs to be done?

The glass barrel is cold, and the plastic of the plunger is strangely textured to my hand. "Are you about to go into an Arena with twenty-two kids whose only chance of getting out is to kill you?" I snort, jabbing the needle into my leg with a grimace. I push the plunger, and searing pain shoots though my spine. I grit my teeth. "Then yes, I do." It's not fair to force Malcovitch, then not be willing to suffer the same. I let him get the injections because he needed them. It was cruel, but it was _kind. _Just like killing him will be. _I held him down_, I console myself as the next needle pierces my flesh. _I held him still. He tried to escape but he couldn't. I hurt him once…I can—I _will_— do it again._

* * *

><p>When I finally sit up, my thigh is throbbing. A spreading sea of raised welts twists across the skin. But it's over. I did it. I confronted my fear.<p>

…_with your eyes tight shut and a medic practically holding your hand_, something within me sneers. Suddenly I don't feel so courageous anymore. I feel like a stupid little girl out to prove something, but unsure of what and to who. I stand and pull my pants back up.

"Satisfied?" He asks.

I flush. "It seemed like a good idea at the time."

"Most do," he replies. "But you now know if it becomes necessary to inject yourself in the Arena, it's a skill you'll be able to perform."

"That's what I thought," I say sourly. "But now that I think of it, it just seems stupid."

He raises an eyebrow. "Beware the Tracker Jackers." It's a cryptic warning, sure; but outside of his prior instructions I have no idea what it might mean. Every child in the 12 Districts knows to beware the muttations. I ponder his words, and wonder if Klerkov might know. He was a Victor—I'm fond of Tasha, but her expertise is in winning the audience, not the Games themselves. No, I'll have to ask Klerkov, I deliberate. That is, if he'll still have me.

Suddenly I'm not in a hurry to leave. The sterile, uninviting atmosphere in here seems less threatening than facing the rejection of my Mentor or Escort. Or the wrath of the Capitol, either.

…or their adoration, for that matter. I've had enough of that to nearly kill me.

"So…are we done?" I finally ask. He's not a friend, no. But he was nice to us, and I have a feeling that familiar faces will become one of the things I miss the most.

"One last thing," he tells me, kneeling down to look at Xavier, still playing coy—and shooting me dirty looks every time the medic's back is turned. "There's something I want to check."

* * *

><p>"Poor dentition with multiple dental caries in both maxillary and mandiblar molars and premolars," the medic drones, wrestling fingers and a penlight into Malcovitch's mouth. But when his hands grasp Xavier's left cheek to steady him, Cry baby lets out a wail and a tantrum of kicks.<p>

The medic swears and rubs his ribs, but never utters a word of complaint. He releases Cry baby, who holds his arms out to me pleadingly, then remembers our fight. He sniffles, and buries his face in his knees instead, leaving long, salty strings of snot and tears against his pants.

…the right side of his face, at least. "Large maxillary abscess noted above left bicuspids," the medic finishes. "We will medicate with *Cephorexin."

Suddenly Cry baby's obsession with cream makes a hell of a lot more sense. I've seen cattle lose hundreds of kilos before, simply because eating became too painful. "It is really going to make a difference?" I ask. "Treating it, I mean?"

The medic faces me slowly, a dogged look in his eye. _My apologies_, he said. _I didn't realize you were intelligent_. His next words are chosen carefully. "It's my job to provide him with Capitol standard care. I would be remiss in my duties not to prescribe the antibiotic."

Again, he didn't answer my question. This time it wasn't because he didn't listen: he just didn't want to. "But it won't cure it, will it?"

He shakes his head. "No. Not in-"

"In what?"

His gold-flecked eyes dull in resignation. "Not in time to make a difference to his quality of life," he ends with simple finality. He's the Hunger Games' medic, and he's known from the instant he laid eyes on Cry baby that he didn't stand a chance.

I press on. "So it won't stop the pain."

"No. I can provide him with a topical analgesic for temporary relief but-"

There's a grunt, and a sharp cry of pain punctuating by a sickening snick and sucking sound. "Good Games, girl!" The medic shouts. "What have you done-?"

My fingers are raw and bloody as Xavier Malcovitch's eyes roll and his body sprawls backwards onto the table, flopping limply. Three of his infected teeth lay in my outstretched palm. I'm Petra Angelovna, and I'm the butcher's daughter. You want the cows as fat as possible before slaughtering, and sometimes that means finding out why they won't eat, and doing something about it. You remove the tooth, or you cut your losses and remove the cow. "Relax," I tell the flabbergasted medic. "It's not like I've never done it before."

"To a _human?_" He asks weakly.

I shrug. "What's the difference?"

"I'll write orders to have him fitted for a prosthetic this afternoon," the medic says shakily, face ashen. "But it'll be up to your Stylists to see that he wears it." Good. After seeing the missing chunk of flesh in that nurse's arm this morning, the stylists are welcome to risk their fingers to Cry baby's teeth. I'm going to need mine for the Arena.

* * *

><p>He's drowsy and fussy when he comes to, and has forgotten all about our petty argument. He moans sleepily, and nestles into my arms while wiping his eyes repeatedly with the back of his hands."Malcovitch," I say suddenly, but not to the boy in my arms. I turn to the medic.<p>

"What about him?"

"Do you know what's wrong with him?"

"I've seen it before," he replies. Protein calorie deficiency, chronic calcium deficiency, B12 deficiency, chronic lead over-exposure, chronic iron deficiency, lack of iodine and underfeeding due to inadequate enamel fluoridation and poor dental hygiene."

I might be intelligent according to him, but I'm not a medic. He'd do well to remember it. "What does that mean?" I ask again.

"That means if he'd been born in the Capitol, he'd been a happy, healthy boy."

I frown. "Can you fix him?"

"No. Those nutrients are essential even during embriogenesis for proper CNS development."

He's talking over my head again, droning like a textbook. Perhaps it's easier to hide the words behind a show of academia than to face what they really mean. I'm a butcher's daughter from District 6, with no education but how to read, write, kill and dress. I envy him his luxury. "Explain," I say softly. "Please. So I can understand."

He sighs. "Xavier Malcovitch suffers from societal mental retardation. It's likely it was congenital."

"What does that mean?" I press.

"He was born that way."

I begin to understand. "Is that why he's so small?"

"Possibly," the medic replies. "But it's why he acts so young."

Societal mental retardation, he called it, and he'd seen it before in District 12. He knows what I don't, and he's done his best to avoid telling me. But I have to ask. Have to know. "How…how much does he understand?"

He is silent for a long while. "Not much," he finally states.

I clutch Cry baby tighter. "How much?"

"Hunger. Pain. Fear," he enumerates. "Maternal affection, perhaps someday sexual attraction. His amygdalary function will be almost normal, his cerebellar function might be made to improve, but he will have minimal, if any, further frontal lobe development."

I can't follow the rest of his words or their full meaning, but his first few sentences were clear. Hunger. Pain. Fear. The only part of the Games he will understand will be the worst. Maternal affection, sexual attraction…but not _love, _I realize with a pang, never love. "So he's, he's not really…_human_, then, is he?" I ask, suddenly timid.

But the medic doesn't judge or condemn. Far from being angry, his tone is sad. "No, Petra Angelovna, not in the sense that you or I am. In the Capitol, we run tests for his and similar conditions. He would have been culled in utero."

_Culled._ Now there's a term I can understand. I'm suddenly angry. "He doesn't even _understand._ It's not fair sending him into the Games!" I object.

"Life isn't fair," he states blandly. "Not to any of us. I took a vow to do no harm, yet here I am, preparing champions to kill children for sport."

"Can't you, I don't know, can't you do something?" I race desperately.

"I'm afraid a medic's notes aren't enough to excuse a Tribute from the Games," he explains rationally. "If physical handicaps are allowable, it follows that mental ones will be as well."

"Can't you _try_?"

He holds my gaze for a long, long time. He is silent. When he finally speaks, his words are like ice. "Yes, Petra Angelovna, I could. But I will not."

"He doesn't deserve to die!" I demand.

He looks at me pityingly, green and gold eyes dulled with pain. "Perhaps, Petra. But equally there's the converse: perhaps he doesn't deserve to _live._"

My spine stiffens. "Because he's _retarded_?" I snarl.

"Especially so, but not for the reasons you think," he continues softly. "That little boy suffers every day. If I knew another way to ease his suffering, any other way, I'd do it."

"I thought your oath was do no harm," I remind him snidely.

"And which is more harm, do you think?" he asks me earnestly. "I could give that boy an injection now, or even 12 years ago in utero when it would have mattered, that would prevent him from suffering more or even ever at all. Which is more harmful, Petra Angelovna? Killing him now, or ever allowing him to live?"

For once, I don't have an honest answer. I cuddle Cry baby to my chest, and glare at him defiantly. "I'm not sure I agree with you."

"Then you're equally not certain that you _don't_." The medic corrects. "For all you know, the kindest thing fate ever did for Xavier Malcovitch is letting him die with dignity in the Hunger Games, rather than from hunger itself." For a few awkward moments he stares at me, his gold flecked eyes flickering as he fingers a fine chain around his neck "Good-bye, Petra Angelovna. It was quite…_enlightening_ to meet you. I shall monitor your progress with interest."

And may the odds be ever in your favor, he doesn't have to add. _I'm Petra Angelovna, and I'm going to win the Hunger Games_, were some of the first words he heard me say. He's known all along he was talking to Malcovitch's killer.

As the Game Enforcers lead us away I shudder. At first impression, I thought _he _was the monster. What did he think of me?

* * *

><p><strong>AN: For those of you who care or are interested, Cephorexin is NOT a real drug at the time of this writing. It is a fictional drug invented by yours truly for the purpose of this fic to be reminiscent of today's pharmaceuticals for any other medical science fiction junkies out there. For those readers not seeped in the inner circles of nerddom, Cephalosporins (the class to which Cephorexin belongs) are a class of antibiotics that act by stopping bacterial wall construction, which will eventually kill the bacteria. <strong>


	18. The Mastermind

**The Mastermind**

**AN: They're back! (No, not miniature dinosaurs…Tasha and Klerkov!)**

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><p>The drive back to the hotel complex is mind-numbingly uneventful. The tank is a dull, windowless shell not even sound can penetrate. Outside, the crowd might still be rioting, but inside the soldiers sit in slumped silence, weapons holstered and forgotten. It's claustrophobic and stuffy. Malcovtich stirs fretfully in my arms, beads of sweat falling down his brow and soaking my breasts. His hair is hot and sticky against my neck. My now even emptier stomach rumbles.<p>

"Where are you taking us?" I ask again. Not a single soldier will make eye contact with me, and every question I pose goes unanswered.

_Get used to it, Petra, you're just a sheep to the slaughter_. That medic did us a disservice in letting us think we were still human. We're in the Capital now, and our humanity got checked at the door. I'm no longer Petra Angelovna: I'm a Tribute.

_District 6, Female._

* * *

><p>I don't know what I expected at our reunion, but it certainly wasn't this. When the roof of the tank finally opens, streamers of sunlight and the chanting of thousands reaches our ears. Xavier Malcovith nearly wets himself from fright, and it takes the soldiers the better part of fifteen minutes to secure the perimeter and haul us up. I crawl out of that drab hole, blinking in the force of the stark sun sheering the sides of every edifice, and am met with the welcome sight of Tasha Pushkina and Victor Ivan Klerkov.<p>

She waves frantically, hopping up and down to be seen, her orange kimono and gilt-dragon headdress bobbing in the breeze. Beside her, Klerkov looks fiercely impressive with the addition of a chain-mail bodice, fanged earrings and an oiled bronze helm, affixed with bull's horns and the fierce, gaping jaws of a bear.

…I was attacked, mobbed, stripped, and half-raped and in the interim, my Mentor and Escort went for a costume change. Damn them. Every ounce of giddy elation I felt at the sight of a familiar face dies and rankles within me. I forget the Capitol, forget the Games, forget the crowd and cameras that must be watching, even now.

"Where the hell have you been!" I shout, feeling my face flush crimson. "The fucking spa? I can't believe you just _left us behind-!"_

* * *

><p>Xavier Malcovitch shares none of my frustration. The moment the lobby doors close behind us with a dull thud the noise of the maddening crowd evaporates. Cry baby opens his eyes at the sudden silence, and notices Tasha Pushkina for the first time. The resulting squeal and shrill echoes in the granite and glass foyer are deafening.<p>

He also managed to get a knee in my ribs in his haste to get down.

Tasha Pushkina hauls him up with difficulty as the silk tears on her dress, cooing all the while. "Hello, _mamin 'hvostik_! Did the medics take good care of you?" Cry baby giggles obligingly, nuzzling her neck with his nose. Klerkov merely harrumphs.

_Yes, Tasha Pushkina, he did-despite wanting to euthanize him on the spot._ Suddenly I'm footsore. Weary. I left my home and family yesterday, and haven't eaten since this morning. Two days ago-was it only two days ago?-I slaughtered animals for a living. Two days from now it will be children.

Her dark eyes find mine over Xavier's curls and prattling, and her wide smile falters. She reads my face, finds me caught between wanting to hate or hug her, run to her like Cry baby for comfort or to bash her painted face in. And despite the paint, fresh wig and magnificent clothes, suddenly she looks just as tired, just as spent as I am.

I want a hot bath. A hot meal. A train ride home. A Mentor's support and a Hunger Games won. I want to live. Want to live whatever it takes…

My tired feet bring me within a meter of them, still uncertain. Klerkov looms over us appraisingly, one over-large hand already curling his beard. Still clutching Xavier to one hip, she opens her arms.

…To hell with it. I hug her.

* * *

><p><em>It's a test, it's a test, with him it's always a test,<em> my mind insists. As I slide slowly back from her awkward embrace, I wonder whether I've passed or failed. But I remember facing down a carnivorous crowd, the sick spray of hot blood on broken glass, the sound of a skull crunching beneath the butt of a rifle and the clear fluid that came pouring down the barrel beneath grey chunks of brain.

I'm Petra Angelova. Petra Stone-heart. I can—I will—win the Hunger Games, and I don't need Victor Ivan Klerkov's help to do it.

But help or no help, I can't stand the brooding silence. "Well?" I round on Klerkov.

"Well?" He yawns in return. "Well what?"

"Don't you have anything to say?" I insist.

"Don't you have any judgments to make?" Tasha asks snidely, adjusting her slipping headdress.

"This does not sound like me at all," Klerkov scoffs, grandiose. "Victor Ivan Klerkov does not cast judgment. He critiques!"

"Oh, shove it, Klerkov!" Tasha snaps. "Just tell us what you're thinking!"

He blinks in exaggerated, feigned surprise. "I am thinking, I am thinking that I am hungry, and it is past time for lunch. I am also thinking that it is lunchtime, and we have yet to meet our Stylists. I am therefore concluding we are running late." He takes her hand and pats it once. "And I worry, dear Natalayia, that lunch may be overlooked in our haste."

"She wants to know what you're thinking about me," I refrain from swearing, at least aloud. "About this morning."

"Ah," Victor Ivan Klerkov intones seriously, crossing his large arms and frowning deeply, "about this…_incident_."

"Fiasco," Tasha says.

"Clusterfuck," I finish.

"Oh, Petra, my Petra," Klerkov sighs, removing the grotesque helm and running fingers through his newly coiffed hair. "What to do, what to do? You didn't have to quash the man's testicles so. I promised him a Consort for the Games, and now I'll be forced to reschedule. And Venus does not give refunds," he clucks. "This will cost me greatly."

…Oh, _fuck._

Tasha blinks.

"You bastard," I spit.

Klerkov grins. "Yes?"

"You knew, didn't you?" I accuse him, shaking in anger. "You _knew _it would draw the crowd into an uproar, and you _meant _for Malcovitch to run to me! That's why you scared him on the train!"

"Of course, _moya Petren'ka!_" he roars, slapping his great thigh in laughter as the leather straps of his armor creak in protest around his barrel-like chest. "It would not have looked half so convincing if it were not real. I am a Victor, I should know. A live audience isn't so easily manipulated." So much for not needing him. My every independent action had been ordered in advance. I only acted a part: _you must fool the world into seeing you for what you really are. They must see the truth within the lie._

"I'll be damnned," Tasha Pushkina says weakly. "You _planned_ all that?"

"Good Games, not all of it! How was I to know the _Resistance _would join in?" He asks, dark eyes shining as he wipes away tears of mirth. "Risky, risky, risky! I would never dream to jeopardize my champion so! But the same trick gets old," Klerkov waves dismissively. "And they must stay _interesting_, Natalayia, above all else, even your idiot-child. They expected the two to walk out together. My Petra gave them the entrance of a champion acting alone and unafraid. Your _zaychik_ gave them the emotional plea of a little boy. The Resistance, well… my champion gets more minutes of press coverage, and no one knows what the hell to really think. If it is _panem et circensus_ the crowd wants, Victor Ivan Klerkov will give it to them, and let the Capitol beware! This Bear will dance, and his little cubs too!" He claps Tasha in a painful, bear-like hug and plants flourished kisses on both her painted cheeks then lifts Xavier bodily over his head and spins once before handing him to me.

Without a word he waltzes away, dancing on the balls of his feet, positively _whistling._

_I do, Victor Ivan Klerkov, _I call to his retreating back as Cry-baby laughs_. I think you're fucking insane. _But he's also one clever son of a bitch. After his stunt this morning, all of Panem is convinced that I'm a cold-blooded monster capable of holding her own_. _And for that I'm grateful he's my Mentor, and no one else's. When Victor Ivan Klerkov says you'll have the best chance to win, he really means it, lie, cheat, steal, kill or fuck. Maybe he's a sopping drunk, maybe he isn't, but there's no longer any doubt in my mind Victor Ivan Klerkov is the most dangerous man I've ever met.


	19. The Feast

**The Feast**

**AN: This chapter is for kcluv4everxoxo, who wanted a description of the Capitol's food. Also because someone has to pay tribute to the lamb stew!**

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><p>Tasha sweeps us off to the dining hall, and my stomach lets out a growl of impatience as the smells of Capitol dishes reach us, even here in the elevator. Cry-baby perks up, nose not recognizing the scent of spiced meats and hot wine but knowing it to be food nonetheless.<p>

…We're not disappointed.

Gilt glass doors open to reveal the most lavish, most sumptuous room imaginable, every wall a window shimmering in the sunlight with a view of all the Capitol spreading out below. But it's not Panem's panorama that catches my attention: it's the _food._

Basted poultry, stuffed pork, ribs and sides of beef-steak and lamb chops grace the air with their rangy scent, spiced with apple-beer, cinnamon and cloves. Cheese-crusted potatoes with pungent garlic and sharp salt. A platter of fruits of indescribable color and texture glazed with honey and sugar, bathed in ice and heavy, whipped cream. Open, simmering cauldrons of stew smelling of onions, raw lamb and red wine, or hearty potatoes, _salo_ and rich cream, or cabbage and carrots with eye-watering, uncrushed peppercorns. A narrow wooden table stretches across the room with enough hearthy, hearty, crusted bread to feed a District from cracked, blanched whites to moist, beer-sopped rye and dusky chocolates. In all my eighteen years, I've never seen a sight or scent so welcome.

"So," Tasha asks me, a grin in her very voice. "What do you think? Satisfactory?"

I can only stare, speechless. In my arms, Xavier Malcovitch is openly drooling.

* * *

><p>We tuck in, and Tasha watches with an amused, maternal smile, occasionally wiping grease and flecks of cream or drool from Malcovitch's face or hair. Either he was never taught or forgot in his haste or hunger, but never once does he touch the silverware. Even my own hands are hot and sticky with tart apple-scented sauce, delicious enough to savor and lick. The meats are richly cut, preserving their full flavor, charred near-black on the outside but still bursting with hot juices and spice. The breads are so thick my jaws ache from chewing, spread over with a patina of fresh, salted butter, cold, hard, and yet refreshing.<p>

Some fruits I have never seen, but plump, near-frozen berries and blended ice so bitter and yet so sweet all at once make me pucker and grimace, and rich honeyed-cream with pastry-crusted peaches have me moaning with delight. Cry-baby guzzles gallons of strained stews and soups, noisy slurps punctuated by burps of satisfaction. Mulled wines steaming-hot, chilled vodka burning like icy fire, or dark, foaming pitchers of beer appear for our tasting pleasure accompanied by fruity or grassy teas in tiny, ornate clay pots.

Klerkov joins us briefly, devouring ten racks of lamb, ripping flesh from bone with ferocity with his bare teeth and hands, his dark beard matted with juices, grease and shreds of meat or flecks of bone. There is no conversation, only grunts of approval, sighs of satisfaction, and the smacking of teeth against lips or silverware against bone china. Tasha watches us all tenderly, stroking Xavier's hair and back as he laps lamb and onion stew like a kitten with cream. Outside, the sun sparkles in sheens of light, nearly blinding. A city sprawls beneath us in every direction, the domed sky open above. A sense of satiety and sleepiness pervades, content, nurturing, _wholesome_.

For the first time in his life, Xavier Malcovitch eats not just to survive but simply because he can, the fears of emptiness and starvation vanished completely from his mind. He forgets the cold and cruelty of 6's harsh winters and whipping winds. Forgets a home and mother lost, a train-ride, a city's scorn and a country's demand for his death. He doesn't know what came before, has no anticipation of the horrors that lie yet ahead. For him, for now, tomorrow holds no fear, and yesterday no sorrow. Sipping at sleepy, spiced wine high in the air of a strange, surreal city, surrounded by waiting Avoxes, my Drunkard, my Addict and my Sin I find myself suddenly envious.


	20. The Stylist

**The Stylist**

**AN: How do Stylists come up with a unique, individual, extraordinary costume each year, any ways? Simple answer: they don't. Warning: I had _way_ too much fun with this.**

* * *

><p>"Where next?" I ask, lugging Xavier sleeping over my shoulder. I find the ache in my feet and joints to be less, their weariness gone; but it's been replaced by an overwhelming sense of rest. I've been stumbling since getting up from lunch, still nibbling on parched, salted wafers and nutty, ripe creams.<p>

"The Stylist," Klerkov scoffs, expressing his scorn. His champion had already had her entrance, and needs no more. "Avitus. This is unfortunate."

"Unfortunate?" I question. In the Capitol, the Stylists are lauded and recognized for their individual efforts. In District 6, it is the Tribute, not the Team, who captures our attention. Sure, the costumes make the opening parade interesting, but almost universally make every Tribute look incredibly uncomfortable or simply stupid. What passes for fashion here finds no resonance in the poorer Districts.

Tasha Pushkina intervenes. "Avitus is old-school. A veteran, if you will. His family is close with the Presidency and have been Stylists for the Hunger Games since the original Game."

"And?"

"And loyalty means everything in the Capitol," she explains, straightening her kimono unconsciously, something she does whenever a subject becomes dangerous or uncomfortable. "He's been punted from the Career Districts because they bring in enough money to merit a better Stylist and better Sponsors, but they couldn't replace him outright."

"So he's a bad Stylist, is what you're saying," I finish for her.

"Not at all," Tasha corrects. "At his best, the man is a genius. But his best was twenty-some years ago."

"Avitus is mediocre as lukewarm _govno_," Klerkov sniffs. "_Moya Petren'ka_, I tell you truly, Victor Ivan Klerkov could design a better costume for you than this man."

"Unlikely," Tasha Pushkina frowns, "given that _your_ idea of a woman's costume involves mainly hairspray and glitter."

"Natalayia, I am offended, truly." Klerkov clucks, wounded. "There would be oils and perfume as well."

"So what do I do?" I ask them. Both of them, I realize. Klerkov might make me his champion with Sponsors, yes; but Tasha Pushkina knows about fashion, knowledge both I and my Mentor sorely lack.

Tasha shrugs. "There's no time for anything else. Take what he gives you, and wear it. The Capitol knows it's Avitus. However horrible, they'll already expect it." Then, she grows serious. "But I have to warn you, Petra Angelovna, Stylists are-"

"Prima donnas," Klerkov spits. "Divas."

"High-strung," Tasha continues, eying me nervously. "You have to understand, their status gives them a certain prestige, an entitlement-"

Ah. "So he's a jackass." And I'm a temperamental District teenager with an aversion to Capitol politics and elitism who held a nurse hostage at needlepoint. We should get along _swell._

"They all are," She admits hurriedly. "But Avitus is one of the oldest, and one of the worst."

I adjust Xavier in my arms. "You think I should just bend over and take it, then."

"I think you should keep the big picture in mind," she whispers meekly, catching my disapproval.

Klerkov thumbs his nose. "Hmph," he declares. "It is your Hunger Games, _moya Petren'ka._ You are a champion! Fire him."But this is not this morning's sober Klerkov, plotting riots and quite possibly revolutions. This is a drunken fool, reeling from a lunch of red meat and red wine. I saw him down enough liquor to kill a horse. Tasha Pushkina catches my frown, and smiles encouragingly. Through my food-sated haze, I remember this morning's conversation as though a life-time ago: _I didn't agree to your terms. __Of course you didn't! __If you had_, _moya Petren'ka__, I would have been considerably disappointed!_

Perhaps this Avitus will have the outfit of a champion, perhaps not. For now, I'll wait and see. Tasha was right when she spoke during the broadcast: it's my Games, my life. I'm going to do whatever the hell I want.

* * *

><p>The dressing room is vaulted, bright, and cluttered. Reams of fabric line the tiered walls, and reflective mirrors and aching stage lights line every corner in a kaledescope of blinding color. It should feel warm, welcoming and inviting with all this light. Instead, it feels as sterile as the Medic's chair.<p>

It takes a full moment for it to sink in: people.

The room is full to the brim with people: Avox, apprentices, tailors and make-up artists already smocked and playing with color palettes. But even in this sea of people there is hardly a noise. No laughter, no talking, no sounds of breath or even a whisper. The entire chamber is eerily still and dead. I shudder.

"_Where are they?_" A reedy male voice insists, soon accompanied by its pallid owner. "_Where are my Tributes!"_ Avitus is grossly tall, cadaverously thin, with spidery, skinny fingers twice as long as his bony hands. His irises are a cloudy white, and his flesh has been bleached until every vein can be seen, pulsating grossly beneath his translucent skin. I take an unconscious step back in revulsion, and stumble into Klerkov.

Our stylist fumbles forward under a feathered cloak, flapping his disgusting hands about and knocking over chairs, basins and several assistants along the way. Each gesture is accompanied by an insult or a curse. Still no one moves. Nobody speaks.

Xavier Malcovitch tenses in my arms, woken by the ruckus. His over-large eyes watch with growing dread.

"You!" Avitus screeches, jabbing a skeletal finger like a dagger into Klerkov's chest-plate, ignoring me completely. "Mentor! You're late!"

Klerkov belches disdainfully in reply, picking lamb bone from his beard.

"You dare keep me from my Tributes? Time is wasting! This would never be acceptable in District 1! And you!" Avitus rounds on Tasha, taking in her ripped, wrinkled kimono and the multiple food-stains along her sleeves from wiping Cry-baby's mouth. "What are you wearing, Pushkina? Orange? Silk? Dragons? Pah!" He slams a fist down into his palm. "You look like that ridiculous Framington woman! District 12! Have you no sense of shame?"

But Tasha Pushkina is gone. Her kimono, her wig, and her face paint remain, but the Chaperone I know has disappeared. She's been replaced by the vapid, smiling woman I saw on the Hunger Games for 6 years now, and like the many others gathered in this room, she neither counters nor responds. In the face of Avitus' rage, Tasha Pushkina doesn't so much as even blink.

"Unacceptable!" Avitus rampages, turning over chairs and shattering mirrors. "UNACCEPTABLE!"

Klerkov counters with a sigh, letting loose a long, brapping fart that echoes wildly in the silent room. No one moves. Tasha Puskina's lips twitch, and I find myself seized with the insane urge to giggle. "UNACC-ACK_-ack_!" The Stylist chokes, clutching his throat wildly and staggering backwards over his cloak. He disappears into a pile of flailing limbs and floating feathers. No one laughs.

"Your pardon," Klerkov allows tactlessly as the sickening stench of barely-digested lamb and onions threatens to overpower us all. In one of the many now-broken mirrors, I see three Avox girls turn away, shoulders hitching in silent laughter.

…then again, they could be _gagging._

Avitus is helped to his feet with much cursing, staggering, and loss of dignity, not to mention blows against the Avox who attempt to right him. "Pah!" he waves them off, "The Great Avitus needs no man's help! Pah!" When he finally stands, he resembles a molting goose, awkward, gangly, and utterly ridiculous.

But Klerkov's hardly concealed contempt had a second affect as well. Cry-baby fusses fretfully, wrestling against my grip for a place to hide his nose. It's a mistake: the movement catches Avitus' attention, and all his ire is deflected to me."And you! Ugly girl!" He snaps his brittle fingers. "Ugly horse-girl with her child! What is the meaning of you?"

I look down at my feet, face paling and flushing simultaneously. His tongue is sharp, hurtful, and ridiculous. I know I'm ugly—have known for a long time—and it shouldn't it _doesn't _bother me. But under Avitus' sharp scrutiny I feel suddenly ashamed. Dirty. Unwanted. With all these eyes and lights on me there's no where to hide, no where to run, nothing and no one to fight. Momentarily I feel more helpless and naked than I've ever been, even sitting on that Medic's table.

"Yes, you!" He snaps, poking me in turn, forcing my jaw up with his cold, vice-like digits. "Who are you? Why did they bring you here? Where are my Tributes!"

"Your Tributes are here, you pompous _mudak_," Klerkov scoffs, reclining in a plump leather chair and swiping a feathered fan from the hands of an Avox girl to wick away the stench. "Now dress them."

"_These?_" Avitus recoils, aghast. "These are my Tributes? Pah! Ridiculous! Poppycock! Absurd! These will not last a day! These will not survive the Arena! These would never be chosen from District 1! These are not worthy to be named Tributes, not worthy of the skill of Avitus who dresses champions! Pah!" He concludes. My head is reeling.

"Avitus who _dressed_ champions," Klerkov yawns, fanning himself while carelessly sucking the marrow from the bone fished from his beard. "That is what you will become if you refuse them. I brought you my Tributes. Now dress them, _zhopa_, or I will find someone else who can."

* * *

><p>"Show me the canvas!" Avitus wails, grotesque hands raised dramatically above his head. "Show me the canvas on which I am to paint!"<p>

His many assorted assistants hop into place, dragging Xavier and I to separate pedestals above the tailor's workstations. And suddenly nearly fifty pairs of eyes are staring at me, expectantly.

"Er, sorry, what?"

"THE _CANVAS!_" Avitus bellows. "_SHOW ME THE CANVAS!"_

"Right," I mumble. "The canvas."

"He means you," a male voice intones. One of Avitus' apprentices comes slowly forward, eyeing me appraisingly through tinted glasses. "You might as well get on with it."

He's the only normal-looking person in the room. I latch on to that desperately. "Get on with what?"

"Stripping." He continues blandly, scratching the copper-toned skin of his neck. "He needs to see what he's working with."

Oh, right: _Canvas_.

…Fuck.

"There's no way," I whisper furiously to Tasha Pushkina. "This isn't going to work. I've changed my mind!"

"Petra, there's no time-!" She replies anxiously, cringing under Avitus' gaze and shouting about the unfair atrocities of the universe to any one who will listen. "Stylists work all year to design and develop these costumes. You've got _six hours_ until the chariot ride!"

"I've had enough nudity now to last a lifetime!" I rush helplessly. "I am NOT standing up here naked-!"

"There's no point being modest," the apprentice continues while Avitus berates Malcovitch's tailors for his lack of musculature and height, as if it were somehow their fault. "He'll strip you himself, if he has to," he explains with a knowing grin. "And Venia swears he touches all the girls inappropriately on purpose with those nasty, cold hands of his."

The thought of those spidery fingers sliding over my skin makes my flesh crawl. I forget every thought of modesty, grace, or poise and strip naked as fast as if I had a tracker-jacker up my tunic.

"See?" He laughs as I shuck my shirt over my head, "there's worse things in life than standing up there naked."

Finally I kick my underthings off my ankles and stand, red-faced, eyes upturned so I don't have to see the gathered crowd all taking a good long look at my tits. I try desperately not to think of Klerkov, but there's no need. My Mentor takes it upon himself to belch loudly and smack as he devours a pro-offered plate of grapes, surrounded by a horde of attentive Avox girls with plumed fans, completely shielded from sight. Thank goodness for small graces.

To my surprise, the only one of us comfortable with these newest developments is Xavier Malcovitch. On a pedestal across from mine, Cry-baby sits, absently twisting his toes, hairless, skeletal, and naked as the day he was born. No shame, no embarrassment, no attempts to cover up his exposed genitals laying limply against the tile. Except for my gaze and Tasha's, he might as well be goddamned invisible. Again.

* * *

><p>They measure. And wash. And measure. And wax. And measure. And wax some more. By the time they're done, my skin feels as though it has been burned and peeled in centimeter strips from my armpits to my soles. My groin is red, exposed, and raw from dripping hot wax and ripping paper. Three hours ago I thought that pelvic inspection was the single most degrading, humiliating, and painful experience a girl could ever suffer through.<p>

…clearly I was wrong.

Now I stand, shivering and sheared, goose-flesh raising on my arms and legs while my Stylist makes the final "adjustments" on "a champion's costume such as Panem has never seen (I am Avitus the Great! Avitus the Almighty who dresses champions! Avitus the Revered, Adored, Resplendant, etc., etc. etc.)". My bare feet ache on a cold, marble pedestal, flattened and painful from standing motionless.

The room is buzzing with activity, but still no one makes an audible human sound, afraid to disturb the Almighty Avitus, dresser of champions. I'm a naked human statue in a hall of silence. And, to add insult to injury, Xavier Malcovitch is now staring at me more intently than a boy lacking pubic hair has any Pushkina tries to distract him, but to no avail. Cry-baby continues to gawk, staring first at me, and then at himself, eyes widening in horror as he discovers our anatomical differences seemingly for the first time. For the next half hour, Victor Ivan Klerkov snores loudly in his sleep while Tasha Pushkina and I are forced to watch Malcovitch's increasingly desperate-and proportionately painful-attempts to correct this newfound problem.

_It will be worth it,_ I tell myself vehemently to justify both the pain in my feet, knees and hips as well as the ridiculous spectacle before me. _Tasha said he was a has-been genius_. _Just toe the line, Petra. Just do what needs to be done. _Not meters away, Xavier Malcovitch collapses in resignation, covering himself with the embroidered sleeve of Tasha's kimono, silently accepting his fate as a horrific mutant.

* * *

><p>And finally, the grand reveal. Avitus hauls us both up on a small, assembled stage, our costumes concealed in velvet curtains behind us, then proceeds to monologue on his career as a Stylist for the better part of fifteen minutes. His entourage looks on in silent stupefaction, but our Stylist pays them no heed. On he drones about the Interviews of the 54th Hunger Games, oblivious that the only person in the assembled crowd paying him the slightest attention is a retarded mute boy, giggling at his every grandiose gesture.<p>

"District 6 is strength and industry, camps of labor working the cold northern soil!" The Almighty Avitus declares as though addressing the whole of Panem. "Mining for resources! Ekking out an existence by sheer force of will! District 6 will arise, alight with glory and resplendent to take her place amongst champions, for SHE HAS BEEN DRESSED BY THE GREAT AVITUS!"

A fanfare of forced applause. The dusky velvet curtain is lifted, and the gathered throng cry out in adoration.

…or abject terror. It's a vomitus of silver, spangled taffeta trailing in endless meters of ruffles, ribbons and flounce. Above is a shimmering, see-through chain-mail diamond-studded bustiere for breasts ten times too large and a set of shoulders at least five times too small. Xavier Malcovitch could crawl into each of those cups and still have need for padding."District 6 is the lifeblood of Panem!" Avitus roars triumphantly, misreading our collective looks of disgust for awe. "The mother whose milk nurses us all!"

Beside me, Tasha Pushkina lets out a whimper. The apprentice looks thoughtful.

I stare in shock, utterly horrified. "No," I whisper. "There's no way."

"THE TRIBUTE WILL BE SILENT!" Avitus screeches, as though heinous blasphemy has been spoken against his Almighty self. A vein pulsates in his left eye."THE TRIBUTE WILL DON HER GOWN!"

"No, fuck you." I state hotly. "I'm not wearing that…_thing!_"

"Unacceptable." Klerkov says coldly, standing to his feet mid-snore. "You are fired." I wheel. He winks.

_Victor Ivan Klerkov, you subtle bastard_. My Mentor has been awake this entire time, just waiting for me to give the word. After this morning I should have known better than to ever doubt him.

"PAH! YOU HAVE NO AUTHORITY TO FIRE THE GREAT AVITUS, AVITUS WHO DRESSES CHAMPIONS-"

"One does not hire a jeweler to do a blacksmith's job!" Klerkov roars, snapping his fingers in scorn. "My Petra isn't petty diamond or sapphire that you should adorn her so! She is Stone-heart! Strong! She needs stone and iron, horn and hide! Bring me a man capable of that material, and I will show you the man who dresses a champion!"

"I DO NOT OBEY YOU, MENTOR!" Avitus spits, shouting as if he were Claudius Templesmith himself. "I ANSWER ONLY TO THOSE CHOSEN, THOSE WORTHY, THOSE-"

"Tributes." Tasha Pushkina interjects, speaking aloud for the first time in hours. "You answer to the Tributes."

"I-" The Great, Almighty, Adored, Revered and Resplendant Stylist of champions halts abruptly. All eyes turn to me. Klerkov winks again.

"And this Tribute fires you," I say evenly. "_Now_." A ripple of shock rushes over the crowd. Avitus' assistant is completely inscrutable.

"YOU FOOLISH GIRL!" his face turns puce, "NO ONE FIRES THE GREAT AVITU-"

"Fine then," I cross my arms over my naked chest. "Have it your way. I have a new name for you: Avitus the _Unhired._"

* * *

><p>That the Great Avitus takes his newfound loss of vocation without any shred of dignity would be an understatement. He screeches inhumanly, his nasally voice cracking shrilly as he curses my Mentor, my Escort, myself, my mother and my District. He curses by the Games, by his honored Excellency President Snow, he curses by the Gods-<p>

"You can curse by my hairy left testicle for all I care," my Mentor bristles. "My champion fired you. Go find another to dress."

"I STILL HAVE THE BOY!" Avitus gloats, grasping Malcovitch greedily. "THE IDIOT-CHILD WHO DOES NOT TALK! HE CANNOT FIRE ME! PAH! I AM ALVITUS THE ALMIGHTEeeeeeyeargh-!"

At that moment, Xavier Malcovitch's eyes flick from my chest to Tasha's, to Klerkov's and finally his own in dawning comprehension. Then one pale, scrawny arm reaches into that flapping cape of feathers and fury to clutch the Almighty Avitus by his aforementioned Almightiness, just to be sure.

Cry-baby's dark eyes shine with the pride of a proven theorem, having existentially and quite literally _grasped_ the difference between the sexes. My sides ache with laughter until I feel I'll be sick as our would-be Stylist drops to his knees, howling in pain. All around us, the once silent hall bursts into life.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Had to try my hand at a Capitol crazy. In the meantime, I have a challenge: how many canon characters were mentioned in this chapter?<strong>


	21. The Missing

**The Missing**

* * *

><p>"I AM AVITUS!" The stylist howls in pain, spraying Klerkov with long strings of spittle as he is pushed forcefully to the door. "AVITUS WHO DRESSES CHAMPIONS! GREAT AVITUS THE EXCELLENT, AVITUS THE REVERED-"<p>

But Klerkov has no mercy, and his every blow is punctuated by an insult worth of his Almightiness himself. "You are Avitus who _dressed _champions, Avitus the fool, Avitus the pompous, Avitus the old! Avitus the Ridiculous, Avitus the Poppycock (if you even have that much left), Avitus the Absurd, and I say to you, Avitus, _Pah!_" The great doors of the hall slam shut with an ominous clang, and we're left alone in the silence. All of Avitus' great entourage is gone, and I'm left with Xavier, Tasha, Klerkov, and the ever-present, ever-silent Avox who await our every wish.

"Well," Klerkov says brightly, clapping his great hands together. "I suppose we should send for someone else, my Petra?"

Three hours. My Games—my life—in his bearish hands. "I suppose."

"Klerkov," Tasha Pushkina shrieks shrilly, the shock finally wearing through, "_there's no time!"_

"Relax, Natalayia, relax," he pats her hand. "I must not only look the part of the drunken fool, I must play it as well." He grins. "I called ahead."

"But _who_, Klerkov?" Tasha whines. "They have three hours! Just tell me who!"

But my Mentor is silent. "I shall return," he states cryptically, "and shall bring someone worthy to dress my champion."

He turns to me, razor-sharp nails combing his oiled beard. "You, eat. Rest. You'll need your strength."

Cry-baby looks up at him expectantly. "And you…yes. Well," he is saved the timely intervention of the Avox girls, lined up and ready to lavish him with doting, maternal affection. "Ah, yes." Victor Ivan Klerkov concedes. "Yes."

_Eat, drink, and be merry, Xavier Malcovitch_, _for tomorrow you may die_.

* * *

><p>To my surprise—and embarrassment—Avitus' Apprentice is still here. He offers me a long, silken robe that glides over my body like cool water. I gather it and tie it as fast as my fumbling hands allow.<p>

"Um, thanks," I mumble. "For the robe."

"It was either you or the boy," he shrugs carelessly. "You have breasts, and I heard from the medical bay he _bites._"

I don't know whether to smile or frown. "Only if you scare him."

He flashes me a winning smile. "Again, no breasts. And out of the two of you, you're the one who seems to mind." He gestures with his head to Xavier Malcovitch, stretching sleepily, oblivious to his nakedness as Tasha Pushkina and that horde of silent girls pamper him. A team of medically designated Avox have already fitted his prosthetic, laced with antibiotic and morphling.

"What are you still doing here?" I ask as he offers me plush lambskin slippers. I slide them on my aching feet gratefully. "I fired you."

"You fired _Avitus,_" he explains, sitting down beside me. "Not me. An Apprentice chooses his Master, not the other way around. It's my career, after all, and I can do as I damn well please."

I study him for a long, long moment. His coppery skin is slick and oiled, but still human nonetheless. Unlike the nurses this morning or even Tasha Pushkina, there's no paint, no scales, no feathers or whiskers that descry him as Capitol. His clothes are eccentric, yes, but only because I'm from District 6. A solid black jumpsuit, and it looks to be made of leather, but much finer quality than I've ever seen except for Klerkov's costume. "You don't even know who it is," I return. "You're risking an awful lot for someone you don't even know."

"Neither do you." He says simply. "And I didn't do it for you, Tribute, I did it for me. You just fired a Stylist with three hours to spare—so this I've just got to see. Don't mistake curiosity for kindness, not if you have any thoughts of getting out of those Games alive."

I set my jaw, anger beginning to burn anew. "Petra."

"Pardon?"

"My name is Petra, Petra Angelovna, and you'd best remember it," I hiss. "My Stylist might not be able to fire you, but I can."

Far from being offended, he merely grins, lowering his mirrored lenses for the first time to appraise me anew. I scowl, then gasp. Those eyes are green, and flecked with gold. My heart skips a beat on its own accord. "You again!"

That handsome face breaks into a grimace of disgust. "Let me guess, you went to the Medic this morning."

"Y-yes-"

"Marcus," he grunts.

"What?"

"You met Marcus," he explains in resignation. "My older brother."

"Oh," I say, somehow disappointed. "You look-"

"A lot alike," he finishes with an air of boredom, rising stiffly. "I know. But trust me, Petra Angelovna, we're nothing alike." They both called me Tribute, but they both said my name. As he walks away, sulking, I'm inclined to disagree.

* * *

><p>I wind my way to Tasha Pushkina, still waiting anxiously for Klerkov's return.<p>

"Any idea who he'll bring?" I ask her, plopping down next to Cry-baby on a plumped couch with zig-zagged pinstripes. It's enough to make my eyes hurt.

"No," she sighs, her magnificent hair completely askew from worrying it. "None at all. Not unless-"

"Unless?" I press, curious. But my Escort only frowns.

"Nothing, Petra," she finally says, face oddly serious. "That would be impossible."

"Who?"

"Tiberia," she whispers quietly.

"Who's Tiberia?" I press. "Why is that impossible?"

"Tiberia was a Stylist years ago, Petra, fierce enough to have been a Victor herself. She refused to follow the tradition of dressing a Victor for life. She liked the excitement, the thrill of the Games so much she worked solely with each year's new Tributes. She dressed _dozens_ of them, beginning with the first Hunger Games," Tasha continues, dark eyes burning. "Petra Angelovan, Tiberia was truly the stuff of legend."

The _first_ Hunger Games? "Wouldn't she be…I dunno…dead?"

Tasha Pushkina sighs. "That's why I said it'd be impossible. She'd be over one-hundred years old by now."

"But she's not dead?" I ask, surprised. Any idiot who watched the Games would know that Caesar Flickerman hasn't aged in decades. I knew about the corrective surgeries to alter appearances, but how long to the Capitol citizens actually _live_?

"That's just it, Petra," she shrugs. "No one knows. Her body was never found, but she hasn't made a public appearance, hasn't even been _seen _since her last Victor, and that was twenty-five years ago."

"Twenty-five years ago?" Something clicks. "But that would've been Kler-"

"Klerkov's Games." She finishes. "I was only a child, but I remember those Games well." Every adult I've ever met has said the same thing, but few have been willing to talk about it. My father told my sisters and I as children to beware that man, that drunken _medved'_, because he was dangerous. Mothers told their children to be back home and inside by dark because the Maneater would kill them if he caught them outside. From what I gleaned as a child from these dark legends and nightmarish monsters that prowled, hungry for children's blood, those Games were one of the shortest and bloodiest in history. That memory is firmly pressed onto District 6's psyche, even a quarter of a century later. No Careers, no Volunteers, just one man, one of three District 6 Victors in all of the Hunger Games' long history, and no one wants to talk about it. I've known all along Victor Ivan Klerkov was my Mentor, was a Victor…but somehow I'd forgotten he, too, was once a mere Tribute like me.

"But she disappeared after the Victor's interview," Tasha interrupts my thoughts. "It was a huge scandal, then an investigation, and finally a media sensation. No one's seen her since."

"She dressed Klerkov, then?" It's somewhat of a surprise. A Stylist with such an impressive history, dressing the Tribute from a District as unimpressive as ours?

She nods, albeit sadly. "Tiberia dressed District 6 that year due to a conflict of interest. You see, Petra…the Tribute from District 1—her birthplace—was a Volunteer."

My heart plummets. I don't want to hear, don't want to know, don't want to think of Malcovna's pleas, of Cry-baby sleeping just out of reach…

"Her grandson."

* * *

><p>It's been nearly half and hour, and Klerkov's still not back.<p>

"He'll be back," I tell Xavier Malcovitch firmly. "He'll come back for us. I know he will." You want to believe he will, I remind myself, but what if the Capitol got smart about this morning's ruse? What if he's not coming back with a Stylist? What if he's not coming back at all-?

"Two hours, Petra Angelovna," Avitus' Apprentice whistles from across the room. "This is going to be impressive."

I don't respond. I don't have to. Tasha Pushkina shoots him a glare, and he falls silent. Her feminine yet oh-so-severe painted on eyebrows have that effect on most, including Klerkov. "You'll want to be careful," she finally whispers.

"Careful?" I ask.

"With him," she gestures to that dark Apprentice, leaning nonchalantly against the opposite wall, arms crossed with one foot standing, the other propped up behind him. "Cinna Raelius."

"Why?" Cinna Raelius is handsome, understated, and carries a sense of save confidence and ease. He might be a jackass, but he's certainly a charming one.

"He's a bit of a pariah in the Games circuit, always switching from one Stylist to the next, depending on the year," she explains. "Effie Framington swears he's reneged mid-Games before if he isn't happy with the Chariot outfit."

_An Apprentice chooses his Master, not the other way around. It's my career, and I can do as I damn well please. _Bold, brash, foolish words, perhaps; but not dangerous.

"So?"

"So he tries to come off chic and cool, Petra, but underneath it all Cinna Raelius is just a lazy, arrogant _'slovoc_ who got this job because his uncle's in deep with President Snow. His brother is a Games Medic for the same reasons. Boys like that make dangerous men."

Suddenly the situation is so ridiculous as to be laughable. "So you're warning me not to be impressed? Tasha, please," I roll my eyes. "Look at him, he's gorgeous and from the Capitol. Even if I wanted to, and wasn't on my way to the Games, I wouldn't stand a chance."

"Others have said the same," she shrugs. "But that's not why he's dangerous."

That humor vanishes without a trace. A shadow falls, cold and silent. "You think it's likely he's reporting? To the Game Authorities?"

"I think it's _unlikely_ that he's not," she counters.

It saddens me. Not for Cinna's sake, but for my own. Who are you, Marcus Raelius? Why did you warn me against the Capitol when you were working for them? Was it because of the Resistance this morning? Were you testing me for Libertas sympathies? I feel cold, naked, and alone. My Mentor is missing, I have no Stylist, and even those who are kindest to me might be betrayers instead. I am Petra Angelovna, Petra Stone-heart, and there is no one left in all of Panem I can trust.

My fingers tighten in Cry-baby's curls. I envy him, sleeping peacefully, unsuspectingly, head laid in his killer's lap. Of the twenty-four of us selected to die, he's the only one foolish, only one childish enough to believe this momentary lull of safety.


	22. The Crone

**The Crone**

**AN: Sorry it's a short one. Also, I have no idea how Yoda's sister turned up here.**

* * *

><p>"Goddamnit, Klerkov!"<p>

I've never broken glass before. In District 6, it's a precious commodity. Our house has just one window, and a small one at that, a garbled mixture of green and blue bottle ends my father fixed up for my mother after the last of my four sisters died to let the sun into our gloomy lives. The Victor's Village is full of it, of course, because the Capitol can foot the heating bill.

For the rest of us, the wood is rationed.

But the tinkering sound is musical, if unfamiliar. I pick up another heavy object and hurl it into one of the few mirrors Avitus' rampage left unbroken. It too shatters into sharp, splintery shards. My chest rises and falls in a satisfied sigh.

Xavier Malcovitch cowers behind the Avox girls. "Petra-" Tasha Pushkina begins, but Cinna Raelius waves her off.

"Feel better?" He asks.

I glare at him. "Damn straight. I prefer my mirrors broken, anyway." If I have to die, at least now I don't have to go with a reminder of my awful face. _Baba Yaga_ _Anglovna,_ the boys called me as a child, _Angelovna the hag_. Some of them still do.

…did. The drunks in the taverns as well. Victor Ivan Klerkov was hardly the first to try to fondle me. He was, however, the least affronting_._

"Your Mentor's cutting it fairly close," he continues, gesturing to his gold pocketwatch.

"We hadn't noticed, Raelius." Tasha states drily. "If you're just going to stand around antagonizing my Tributes, at least make yourself useful."

"What, design something?" He snorts. "Pushkina, I'm flattered. But I'm only an Apprentice."

"You're also an asshole," I say, just loud enough so he can hear me.

His green and gold-flecked eyes hold mine, bemused. "You have an insult for everyone, don't you? Even those who might help you."

"Yeah, so?" I snarl.

"It's fascinating," Cinna continues boredly. "Petra Angelovna, you couldn't hold your tongue to save your life."

"I'll do more than hold _your_ tongue if you don't shut up," I growl, pacing the glass-strewn floor in those lambskin slippers. "So shove it."

"And here I thought you District women were all oppressed and trained to be sweet, silent little ladies," he continues. "Clearly I'm behind the times."

"Do I _look _like a lady to you?" I glower.

"No," he returns sharply. "You look like a _man_."

But far from stinging, it only goads me further. "That makes one of us."

"Oh for Games' sake just stop it!" Tasha Pushkina shrieks, painted on eyebrows rising to dangerous heights. "Both of you! You're bickering like children!"

There's a moment of shocked silence as her voice echoes through the chamber. The green and gold-flecked eyes of Marcus—_Cinna, _I mentally kick myself—Raelius find mine again. "Do you want to tell her to butt out, or should I?" He asks with a sly grin.

"Don't you dare," I bristle. "My Escort. My Games. My rules." Anyone who sees otherwise can just go and fuck themselves.

* * *

><p>There's a solemn click as the lock on those great doors begins to turn. Instantly we stand, all eyes riveted to that engrossing entry-way, waiting for our first glimpse of Klerkov's mysterious Stylist. Even Cry-baby seems intrigued. For a moment we stare, speechless, as his great frame fills those doors. He's alone.<p>

…Oh, fuck.

But something's off. My eyes are wrong. There's a slow, steady tapping sound growing closer and closer, and Klerkov stands aside, deferring to the darkness behind him. Now I know why it's taken him so long to return.

She's tiny, frail, child-like next to his enormous bulk of muscle, armor, and the fat of 25 years of drunkenness. Unbelievably old, impossibly ancient, cat-like hands gnarled beyond recognition grasping her bone-handled cane. But Tiberia—it _must _be her, Tasha Pushkina is crying silently—Tiberia is not weak by any means. She stands on her two feet unaided, her spine straight and stiff. Her whiskered face is sagged and faded, but the now-silvered fur of tiger-stripes still remains. Green, slitted eyes glint fiercely beneath those thinning brows. She sniffs the air hungrily.

We're speechless. Even Cinna Raelius has nothing to say in her presence. Avitus demanded attention and respect with his pompous antics, Tiberia's silence simply commands it so. She takes us all in, feline eyes roaming over each of us in turn, resting finally on Xavier Malcovitch. He stares back, unafraid.

"She has the spirit?" Her voice is grating, throaty, and harsh.

"Yes, yes, _babushka,_" Klerkov rushes, beckoning me frantically as the spell is seemingly broken. "Here is your champion."

"Come, girl." Tiberia commands with an inpatient tap of her cane, stretching out those withered hands. "Let me see you."

It's only when she places those leathery palms and claws against the flesh of my face that I realize the awful truth: my Stylist is _blind._

* * *

><p>Tiberia senses our doubt. "I am old, not inept," she addresses Tasha. "The eyes are weak. The eyes are deceptive, they cannot be trusted. It is with our eyes we see shadows and believe things advance in the dark. I was once blind, as you are. Now I see."<p>

"It is not the sight," she croaks. "it is the feel. Not the outfit that makes the Tribute, not the Games that make the Victor, but the heart that fuels the champion." She says to Cinna. "Do you understand, boy?"

"I believe so, yes."

"Then know so. Become so, else you are nothing. You work is nothing. The outfit does not matter. It cannot matter. What matters is the heart. If that heart is weak, the most skilled hands cannot save it. We do not dress, we undress. Do not create, but reveal."

To me she is direct. "Are you a champion, girl?"

_Do or do not, there is no try. Here there is only win or die._ Klerkov's words. I can't afford to be anything less. "Yes."

"Then it is enough," her harsh voice approves. "Tiberia will reveal you. Go, rest. I have no need for you here now."

"It's _not _enough," I place my hands on my hips. "Who did you bring for Malcovitch?" I demand of Klerkov.

"Even the most foolish can confound the wise, perhaps they are the only who can. It is from the mouth of babes and children that even the greatest of empires will meet their fall. He is dressed," Tiberia states with solemn finality, laying those weathered paws in Cry-baby's curls. "He is dressed."

She's either a prophet or a certifiable nutcase. Or perhaps, Petra, she's just senile. _Out of the mouth of babes, indeed, Tiberia. Xavier Malcovitch doesn't _speak.

* * *

><p>"I'm not an idiot, Klerkov," I insist once we're well out of earshot.<p>

My Mentor shrugs. "I agree."

"You called her _babushka_," I press. "Grandmother."

He turns to me, face unreadable. "Yes."

"Why?"

He is silent, but I would have him answer."Tasha Pushkina said her grandson was in the Arena with you."

When he finally speaks, his voice is sad and low, even more so than when we discussed Xavier Malcovitch on the train. "Tasha Pushkina says many things."

I swallow nervously. "Did…did you kill him?"

"I killed many," he states unashamedly.

"But did you kill him?" I press.

Klerkov sighs, and stares me directly in the eyes. "This is a conversation we will not have-"

"Goddamnit, Klerkov!" I nearly shout. "Your job is to be my Mentor! To tell me about your Games!"

"My job, Petra Angelovna, is to train you to win yours," he returns.

I run in front of him and bar his way. I cross my arms. "Don't you dare treat me like a child."

"Then perhaps you should stop interrupting like one," he chides, but not unkindly. "Then you would hear all that Victor Ivan Klerkov means to say. I did not say "will not have ever", _moya Petr'enka_. But it is a conversation for a Mentor and a Victor, not a Tribute."

"I'm your champion," I scowl. "What difference does it make?"

"Between a Victor and a Tribute?" He asks, surprised. "Nothing," he shrugs. Then his bearded face saddens. "Everything."


	23. The Avox

**The Avox**

**AN: Rated T for sexual references**, **themes, and general Klerkov-iness.**

* * *

><p>We walk in silence for a long while. "Where are you taking me?"<p>

"To rest," Klerkov answers cryptically. "To the sauna."

I flush. "Saunas are for men." Small bathhouses are common on the lakefronts in 6, where men go in to drink, smoke, and sing bawdy songs about women's tits that carry in the cold winter air. Then they emerge naked and sweating to plunge into the water's cold depths. They come up, shivering and sputtering, shaggy manhood erect to run back to the sauna as their fingers and feet turn blue. It's a privilege, a luxury, a rite of passage for boys to become men, so sacred even the pleasure-women aren't allowed.

Girls get blood, the right to wear soft, pretty underthings and to join the old gossip's tables to learn to attract and pleasure a man. Or, if you're ugly, to be mercilessly teased and bullied by your peers and their grandmothers alike.

Klerkov chuckles. "I had no idea you were such a traditionalist. Besides, Petra Angelovna, you are hardly a woman." No, Victor Ivan Klerkov, I agree silently, that I'm not.

"The Capitol, you will find, is more…shall we say _modern_, in their acceptance of our traditions," he explains. "Perhaps you are a woman, moya Petr'enka, but I see no reason you may not enjoy this. You are of 6! It is your heritage, and therefore your right."

* * *

><p>In the Capitol, a sauna is a much different thing. Far from a shrine of rough-hewn wood and smoke it is a stone room filled with pungent, steaming fountains and the pleasant, musical lilt of trickling waters. It is also far from the haunt of only <em>men.<em>

Seven handsome, hairy Avox women with strong, oiled hands lounge carelessly amidst the steam. They are naked.

"I see they're not so picky about pleasure-women being here, then." I snort. "Or is this what you meant by _modern_?"

"It is a tradition for the masseuse to be so," Klerkov says sorely. "But if it offends you, _moya Petr'enka_, tell them to dress."

Offends? Hardly. Incites to jealousy would be more apt: every one of them has a pair of magnificent, pendulous breasts for which Victor Ivan Klerkov fails to hide his approval. He claps his thick hands delightedly, and the nearest rises, turning to display her full figure for our viewing. He fondles the dusky skin of her breasts with a sigh of satisfaction, not a trace of blush on his face that I should see him do so. "You do not mind, do you?" He asks, never taking his eyes off her sculpted figure.

"I suppose there are other 'traditions' as well," I state drily. "I'd hate to deny you your rights or heritage."

He grins wickedly with an appreciative nod, twisting the tail of his beard in excitement. "Ah, yes. I only ask that you not tell Natalayia. Being from the Capitol I fear she is not so…_traditional_ as you or I." He's right: Tasha Pushkina would positively murder him.

Hardly does he disappear into the steam before I hear the rattle of his chainmail shirt against the stones. Low, rhythmic grunts, soft, sobbing sighs and the occasional agonized scream interrupt the sound of flesh smacking on flesh. I grew up in a one-roomed house, and the sound of two adults fucking is hardly new to my ears. As a child, I didn't understand, but as I grew older it became a choice between enduring the mortification with my back turned or standing outside in the cold. Winters in District 6 are unbearable, dark, and long. Needless to say, it soon ceased to embarrass me.

It's been a long time since I've heard those sounds, though. It's been years since my sisters died, and I suppose after losing them my mother didn't want the sorrow of bearing more children, or perhaps my father grew too old or too tired to sire them. Here in the Capitol, two days from the Hunger Games, I find the sound of Klerkov and the whore present as I sleep to be strangely nostalgic.

Although for a woman without a tongue, she sure makes a hell of a lot of noise. My own mother was never so enthusiastic. Then again, she wasn't _paid._

* * *

><p>I start awake, not even aware I had ever slept. I'm lying face-up in a shallow stream of steaming, scented water, surrounded by the warmth of hundred of small, burning black stones. I also seem to have lost my clothes. Again.<p>

Strong, mannish hands caress my limbs, my shoulders and my neck as hot oil drives the ache and soreness from my every bruise and bone. The Avox women must've descended while I slept, and somehow, with every touch, I find myself trying _not_ to think of Marcus Raelius.

Relaxed, remote, with the sensuous touch of several naked women, saunas—especially this Capitol variety—were obviously intended for _men._ I feel no sense of underlying pleasure, only one of deepening relaxation yet mounting confusion. Something tells me my Mentor brought me here not out of kindness but simply to fuck with me.

…alright, not _me_. At least not literally. Over the many tinkling pools and falls I hear Klerkov and his whore, still continuing quite vigorously, splashing away in shallow pool somewhere behind me. But a dark woman with familiar dusky skin and a very, _very_ sated smile is currently kneading my left sole. _He's moved on to another_, I realize. "Are you seriously fucking _all_ of them?" I ask the vaulted marble ceiling in distaste.

"Do not be ridiculous, _moya Petr'enka_," Klerkov's voice calls jovially between thrusts. "I am not that young anymore! One at a time is all Victor Ivan Klerkov can handle now!"

I groan in disgust. "Klerkov, has it ever occurred to you that men like you are the reason many girls don't marry?"

"We are also the reason many girls do not starve," he says humbly.

"And what about their babies?" I ask the swirling steam above me drily.

"What about their babies?" He grunts in return as his newest object of affection lets out a wailing moan that goes on and on and on and _on_, echoing off the stone walls and drowning out even the loudest of the fountains. "Ahhh, yes," He finally sighs. "Now listen closely, _moya Petr'enka_. That is a sound even a practiced woman cannot fake."

I wrinkle my nose. "Klerkov, you're a pig."

"And you, my Petra, are a prude."

"Just tip them well," I insist hotly.

He chuckles as another of my masseuses disappears into the fog, replaced by his whore, her full lips still panting and parted. "I always do."

* * *

><p>When I wake again I'm lying on my stomach, face and breasts smashed against smooth stone. Seven pairs of strong hands hold me down against steaming water that scalds until I scream. Long fingernails rake my flesh from scalp to sole as I beg, plead, scream, kick for them to stop-<p>

It's over. They relent. I clamor shakily up, wiping streaming eyes on the back of my wet, red hands. I try to cover myself, but can't find my robe in all this steam.

"Klerkov?" I cry. "Klerkov?" But only the echoing plunks and tinkles of the fountains greet me. I don't dare raise my eyes to the Avox for answers, out of shame. But as I struggle out of the pool the pain is already lessening, and by the time my fumbling feet find the stone floor it's gone entirely, leaving only a faint tingling in its wake. I feel refreshed, cleansed, even. They approach slowly and rub a light, milky cream against my entire body. I blush as the dusky woman's hands find my breasts, but she only smiles intriguingly.

So it wasn't punishment, then. Just part of their routine. She offers me my robe back, now permeated with the sleepy scent of the sauna. "Th-thank you," I manage to stammer, uncertain. "And I'm sorry about…about _him_." To my surprise, they erupt into giggles, trading knowing glances and making hand gestures which even I have to assume have something to do with the size of Klerkov's manhood. Which, judging by their tittering and rather satisfied expressions, must be impressive indeed.

"Er, right. Good to know," I continue. "Well, um, bye, then." I hustle out, flaming red, and it has nothing to do with temperature at all.


	24. The Overheard

**The Overheard**

* * *

><p>I trek my way back the empty hotel halls the way we came, lambskin slippers sticky on my humid feed. A desk-station clerk doesn't bother looking up, apparently accustomed to seeing Tributes—and all other manner of women—wandering about in various states of undress and utter embarrassment.<p>

The impressive double-doors aren't difficult to find, but on approaching I hear raised voices. Klerkov's deep bass and Tasha Pushkina's shrill tones are unmistakable, even muted.I have less than an hour to be dressed and in the Chariot displayed for all of Panem to see. Heart racing, I press my ear against the door. With my luck, Tiberia went and died or something.

"It's cruel, Klerkov!" Tasha shouts. "Haven't they suffered enough already?"

"The Games are cruel, Natalayia Pushkina. Not me." Just this morning I would've disagreed with him, but now I'm not so sure. I would have sworn if anyone would mistreat Avox whores, it would've been him. But he didn't raise a hand—or any other body part, for that matter—to them that wasn't welcome. My father used to say _if you truly wish to know a man, my Petra, watch how he treats his cattle._

Tributes aren't cattle, we're prize stallions, fighting dogs or cocks. The Avox are available for whatever task they've been assigned, with no rights of refusal or personhood, which makes those women the closest thing to cattle the Capitol truly knows.

"But that outfit-"

"That outfit will show everyone how strong my Petra really is," he boasts.

Her tone changes, softer, pleading. "Klerkov, please, listen to a _woman_-"

"What, you think because she is ugly she is afraid to be beautiful? Ha! My Petra is fearless. Strong. Stone-heart! She will wear this and make a mockery of femininity, the Games, this ridiculous costume tradition, and most importantly, herself!" My heart races at his answer. "Nothing terrifies Man like the thought of a self-confident woman. Find a Woman who can scorn even herself—and even I shudder in fear. "

Footsteps. I leap back from the door as Klerkov's strong arms swing it inwards. They stroll out, so deep in thought they pay me no heed.

Tasha is silent a moment, her face drawn. "The other Tributes will hate her."

"The females, yes," he chuckles. "They'll be so caught between jealous spite and wanting to emulate her who knows what they'll do. "

"And the males?" she continues lowly.

"Will want to fuck her so badly their _khui _will get in the way of killing her!" he roars. "Believe me, Natayalia Pushkina. Right now, being cruel is the kindest thing I can do for that girl."

"How touching, Klerkov," I say as Tasha Puskina jumps nearly out of her skin. "Or it would be, if I didn't know you knew I would be listening."

"Petra!" Tasha gives me a quick hug. "You're soaking wet—oh, feel how soft your skin is!" She squeals, running her fingers over my forearms with delight.

My Mentor merely shrugs, not the slightest hint of surprise or guilt crossing his features. "It was either that, or a long argument, Petra Angelovna. Now you've heard my reasons. Will your wear the outfit of a champion?"

I cross my arms, all but ignoring Tasha's doting. "Do I have a choice?"

"There is always a choice, Petra Angelovna," Klerkov relates emphatically. "Wear the costume, or go stark naked. It is up to you."

I chew my tongue. "I'm not stupid, Klerkov. Either way, you win. You get to show off a woman's self-confidence and scorn. Fine. I accept your premise and your plan." And if I can do it in a manner that doesn't involve showing my ass to Panem's public, more the better_. _This day has already had more than enough nakedness to last me a lifetime.

* * *

><p>Klerkov puts a hand on my arm to lead me inside. I step on his foot purposefully, a futile gesture given his iron-clad feet and greaves. Tasha Pushkina gives me a knowing grin and shakes her painted head, and slips in ahead of us.<p>

"_Blya!_" Klerkov feigns being deeply aggrieved nonetheless, limping comically on the wrong foot. "My Petra, what was that for?"

"Pull a stunt like that _vyebyvatsya _again and I'll tell Tasha what you were really up to," I warn him.

Under the shadow of his heavy beard, his mouth twitches. "I'm sure I have no idea to what you might be referring."

"Your seven girlfriends?" I raise an eyebrow, feeling nowhere near as intimidating as Tasha Pushkina.

"Girlfriends?" He chuckles patronizingly. "My Petra, you misunderstand. That was nothing so long term."

I cross my arms. "Whores, cocubines, pleasure-women, whatever. Just don't disappear on me like that, okay?"

"How else was I supposed to arrange this little incident, eh? Besides, my Petra, you're in the Capitol," he shakes his head, bemused. "A Tribute! You're perfectly safe."

So this morning's incident was 'perfectly safe? Right, _mudilo._ I glare at him. "Until two days from now."

"Well, naturally only until then. But soon I will have to be more careful: there will be other Victors here as well."

That catches my attention. "Other _Victors?_"

"Ones not assigned as Mentors, not this year or yet. There is no reason to worry this early in the ceremonies…but after this ridiculous chariot ride they will become my chief concern."

"Well, damn," I say drily. "Here I was worrying about the other _Tributes_."

But Victor Ivan Klerkov only shakes his head. "The other Tributes would not dare touch you, my Petra. The rules state clearly any and all pre-Games injuries will be reciprocated by the Game Enforcers."

I'm outraged. "_What?_"

"If another Tribute were to purposefully handicap you-or attempt- he would be injured in an identical fashion."

I snort. "And then we'd _both_ be fucked."

"Naturally. The same rules apply for Mentors. Were the Careers from, oh, let's say District 1 to fall ill from poison, the poisoner's own Tributes would suffer retaliation."

"But that's not fair!" I protest.

"No, but it is the only deterrent," Klerkov continues. "It keeps the Game within the Games. Victors _without_ Tributes suffer personal penalties, however, that do not reflect upon their District."

So a former Career from a Career District with Mentors to spare, given enough incentive, might attempt to even the playing field before the Games even began."Oh." I finally say. "So don't talk to strangers."

"No," Klerkov draws me close for a whisper, in what must look to all the rest of the world as a rather passionate embrace, which, to the rest of the world, must look like typical drunken, horny Klerkov. "No, indeed. Much money changes hands during the Hunger Games, and there are those who will do anything to…how shall we say? _Make the odds more in their favor_. There are plots about these halls for an _accident_, Petra Angelovna. You must be careful."

"Plots?" Accidents? I don't like the sound of either of those. "How would you know?"

"I have my spies."

I shiver, and my voice turns to the tiniest of squeaks. "Spies?"

"Yes," he enunciates sharply, pretending to graze my ear with his lips. "Penetrating every level of the Capitol, even to the _very highest_."

My heart skips a beat, and my surprised grip on his arm tightens involuntarily. Those whores weren't just whores, after all. I might not know much about the Libertas movement, resistance groups or the Capitol scene, but who more likely to have ties or sympathies to a resistance movement than the Avox? There's got to be a reason their tongues were stripped out and rights taken away…what better motive than treason? They're commonplace slaves, mistreated whores, invisible and present in the thousands. Even I hadn't given them a second thought until Klerkov had abandoned me…The Capitol thinks them powerless slaves. They haven't realized they've invited an occupying army into their very homes.

_Risky, risky, risky…how was I supposed to know the Resistance would join in? I would never endanger my champion like that!_ His words from this morning bring an even deeper chill to my bone. Did my Mentor know? Was he behind it? Or is it all simple coincidence? There's no way to out and ask it, not safely. But if I read his cryptic message right, Victor Ivan Klerkov has access to conversations that take place even in President Snow's and the Senators' bedchambers. "I, I think I understand."

"Ah! Good!" He beams loudly enough the desk clerk shoots him a shushing glare across the lobby. Klerkov only winks knowingly, and swats my ass with a playful flick of his wrist.

Another thought occurs. "Have you warned Malcovitch?"

He chuckles, ushering me through that doorway again. "M_oya Petr'enka, _the personal penalty is quite _high_. One does not risk death for a simple bunny when it is a She-bear who poses the threat."


	25. The Revealing

**The Revealing**

* * *

><p>Tiberia isn't dead, but she isn't far from it, either. The exertion took its toll, and my Stylist sits sleeping, paws folded over the head of her cane. But even now she doesn't sleep lightly. The moment my softer footfalls join Klerkov's stomping boots and Tasha's ticking heels her slit-like, blind eyes open and find me.<p>

"You have returned," she states.

"Yes," Klerkov claps his thick hands. "I have brought your champion, _babushka_."

She rises without the aid of her cane, strong strides carrying her on firm footfalls. The cane isn't for her legs, then, merely her eyes."You, girl," she orders. "Let me see."

I kneel. The rough pads of her hands, the tickling fur and the harsh prick of her claws slide down my now-silken skin, shredding the robe effortlessly. "They will try to disguise you," her wrinkled, split lips whisper, "hide you. Already you have shed your skin. But you must never forget what you are." As she speaks her hand falls between my breasts, resting heavily over my racing heart.

"I won't forget," I promise.

"So many say," she finishes sadly. "So few return. Now, boy, dress her."

* * *

><p>Xavier Malcovitch lets out a shrill, excited cry at the sight of me, but is restrained from running. "He hasn't dried yet," Tasha explains, ruffling his curls gently. "In a few more minutes he'll be ready."<p>

"I mixed his paint myself," Cinna Raelius boasts. "It's an experimental thermo-reflective compound. It automatically regulates body temperatures regardless of environment, so it won't run when exposed to generated or ambient heat. When I become a Stylist, I'm going to patent it."

Whatever the fuck that might mean. "Right. You realize who you sound like, don't you?" I retort, walking to Cry-baby to take a closer look. Malcovitch's pale, sickly skin is now white as snow, but shining with the healthy glow one sees on Capitol advertisements, where starvation is thing unheard of. His dark curls have been ironed and pressed into perfect ringlets, pinned with countless, flashing white gems and real flowers: white lilies. I feel my stomach drop. They've added more eyelashes, and lightened the shadows of his starving face to be plumper, rounder, even more child-like and innocent somehow.

_Cinna Raelius, you clever son of a bitch._ No Tribute could look him in the face with the intention to do him harm. Not without feeling a surge of guilt and vomit.

…_Damn you, Cinna Raelius._ I am Petra Stone-heart. Rocks can't feel. Rocks can't die. Sheep and rabbits can, and do. Xavier Malcovitch—and twenty-two others—will be no exception. I'm not a hero, not a martyr, I'm Petra Angelovna, District 6 Female, and I want to _live._

And I will. Regardless of cost.

I can't look into those expectant dark eyes. I glance down at my own skin, and find under the heavy lights, even the sauna's softness seems nothing more than a dull sheen. "Your turn," Cinna grins, flashing the spray nozzle nonchalantly. "You know the routine."

I clamor onto the slowly turning pedestal, shedding the remains of my robe and kicking off my slippers against the protestations of my feet. "I'm getting sick of the routine."

"Think how I feel," he returns sympathetically. "I'm the one who has to look at it."

"If it bothers you, shut your eyes," I snap.

"I'd recommend the same for you. This stuff stings," he warns. "But not too tight, or you'll get lines."

I close my eyes gently, and a cool mist spreads from my face to feet in wide, sweeping arcs. Fans blow against my skin, and the process is repeated a dozen times. Next a smaller brush, in small, neat strokes coats my eyelids, my lips, and cheeks. I'm torn between indignant and mortified when cool spurts fall on my chest. _Your idea of a woman's costume involves mainly glitter and hairspray_, Tasha Pushkina said to Klerkov. I can only hope my Stylist doesn't share his taste.

* * *

><p>"Well?" Cinna asks. "What do you think?"<p>

I open my eyes and am disappointed. He bleached me as pallid as Avitus, with eyes and cheeks a rotting grey-green like week old bruises. My lips are a dull, metallic silver. Klerkov said I'd look beautiful, but I find myself hideous instead. "I look like _death,_" I wrinkle my nose in disgust.

But Cinna Raelius is far from concerned. He winks. "That's the idea."

I'm still drying, and can't sit or be clothed. Thankfully the fan's air has turned heated instead of cool, and the many, blinding lights waft warmth down over me. Tasha Pushkina stays with me as Cinna dollops what looks to be black, tarry grease into my hair, kneading my scalp and hair like those Avox women until it takes the same poisonous hue. He piles it on top my head, fanning it ever up and out, fingers applying new product expertly as my lungs are assaulted with harsh chemicals—the Capitol's tax for beauty. Neither Tasha Pushkina or Cinna seem to be bothered, but it takes everything I have not to erupt into a fit of coughing. I roll my eyes to look at the vaulted ceiling and let the fans whisk away the irritated tears.

The nails are next, pools of liquid metal in glass casings that are glued then painted against my hands. They're long, sharp, and deadly-looking, thick as the claws of a bear. Cinna's face is a mask of painstaking concentration as he applies each one, for once without a witty comment or snide remark.

* * *

><p>Cinna and Tasha bundle me into a changing stall, but I can't help but get a glimpse of my counterpart, lapping cream yet again, dressed only in a robe and slippers identical to the ones I just lost. "We're running out of time," I tell Tasha. "Who's going to dress Malcovitch?"<p>

"He is dressed," Tiberia states.

"But _who?_" I press.

"He is dressed," she repeats solemnly, as if it settled the matter. She's said it before, yes; but like Marcus Raelius' cryptic warning and Klerkov's cautions, I still have no idea what it _means_.


	26. The Apprentice

**The Apprentice**

**AN: I apologize for not updating sooner. It's been a busy semester, and I've had to change my goal from finishing this fic in time for the Hunger Games to getting all the characters inside the Arena by that time. Thank you all so much for your patience, your favoriting, and especially for all your kind reviews!**

* * *

><p>"You're not happy about this, are you?" Cinna Raelius grins, green eyes sparkling with a blaze of gold, reminding me again of the medic from this morning. "Or is it that you'd prefer someone else?"<p>

"You're a guy. I'm a girl," I seethe. "I'm also butt-ass naked. What do you think?" But yes, the honest answer is given a list of men I know, I can think of several I'd rather swap for Cinna Raelius right now. The first being my father-no, make that Xavier Malcovitch, the boy who doesn't care. Then my father, who's seen me since I was a child, then Victor fucking Ivan Klerkov who'd rather look _elsewhere,_ and then-

…No. I'm not going to go there now. Or ever. I'm Petra Angelovna, _Baba Yaga_ Angelovna, and even if I wasn't the Butcher or the Stone-heart or District 6, Female I'd still never have a chance of a life with him.

"Don't ask me what I'm thinking right now unless you want an honest answer," Cinna winks, taking me in from feet to face. I flush crimson.

"I've seen worse."

I'm indignant. "_What?"_

"Girls. I've seen worse," he repeats with a shrug. "That's what I'm thinking right now. For a Tribute, you'll do fine. Besides, you've got a kickass outfit, if I do say so myself. In an hour's time, no one in Panem's going to give a damn about your lack of breasts."

I glower, but there's no point in fighting or firing him. We've got less than an hour to get me and Malcovitch dressed. I cross my arms.

Cinna seems disappointed. "What, no clever retort?"

I shake my bare shoulders at him and stick out my tongue. My breasts are so small they barely bounce. He grins.

"There's the spirit. Now close your eyes," Cinna insists, pulling a silken sash from the dressing table. "Go on, do it! I promise I'm not going to try anything, and something this good deserves to be a surprise."

* * *

><p>The soft touch of silk brushes against my face with every movement I make. So far from the texture I've guessed at raw silk and leather for the basic bodice, but beyond that I can't tell. My stomach is still bare and my chest barely covered, and I console myself it can't be worse than Avitus' Outfit.<p>

And by now it's too late, anyways. I have no choice but to trust Tiberia's instinct.

…even though she's blind._Tasha and Klerkov trust her, too,_ I remind myself. Right, a blind crazy woman and the word of an Addict and a Drunk. _Oh, chort_.

"Talk to me," I blurt.

"What?" Cinna Raelius asks.

"Just..I don't know. Talk to me. It's been a shitty day and I'm going crazy."

"Five minutes ago you wanted me to shut up," he chuckles.

"Yeah. Five minutes ago. And _now_ I want you to talk." I demand. "So talk."

I hear the slight jingle of metal. Chainmail, I think.

"And what would her majesty request I speak of?" He asks pompously.

"Har, har. That sounds like chainmail."

"Not saying," Cinna reminds me, drawing weight down onto my head. A helmet, I would guess, but the spikes of my hair remain untouched. "Spoilers."

I cast in the dark. "So what's it like?"

"What's what like?"

"Being a…Stylist's apprentice. A Medic's brother. A Capitol citizen. Anything."

"To the first, not as glamorous as it would seem," Cinna indulges me with an air of boredom. "To the second, hell. To the third, well, if you like comfort, overfeeding, overcrowding and entertainment designed for the simple masses, not so bad. I tend to experience ennui of all three, myself."

"Oh."

"Oh, what?" he asks.

"I just didn't think having a medic for a brother would be so bad, that's all," I reply.

"Clearly you've never had an older sibling," Cinna scoffs, yanking what feels like a leather straps tight across my chest, then lacing what can only be a corset.

"Four," I say softly, eyelashes catching the inside of the sash.

"What?" He asks absently, fingers running the laces expertly.

"I had four."

He doesn't sigh, doesn't say anything, but I hear him exhale slowly and feel his breath on my bare back. It sends a shudder up my spine, one he mistakes for tears. "Petra, I'm sorry, I didn't mean-"

I shrug. "No, but you just assumed."

"What I meant was you've never had an older sibling like mine."

"Would you like to talk about something else, then?" I ask, dry-eyed.

"Would you?"

"Sure." He has me stoop, and place my hands on his shoulders as he kneels to slide my feet into the shoes. More leather, by the feel, but stiff and heavy.

"Now put your left foot down and give me your right, but be careful-"

"What is that-!" I yelp, suddenly three inches taller and incredibly wobbly. I put my other foot down in a desperate attempt not to keel over and feel fingers grate under my right heel. "Oh, sorry-" I groan.

"No worries," Cinna Raelius grits his teeth. "Occupational hazard," he continues unconvincingly.

"You let her put me in heels?" I demand, balancing precariously as he bundles my right leg into the boot, covering me from foot to mid-thigh. "_What were you thinking!_"

He laughs, still wincing. "I was thinking that Tiberia is the greatest artist this country has ever known, and if she chooses you and says you can wear boots, you damn better be able to wear them."

He's right. In the last day I've faced a Reaping, a Mob, vaccines and a pelvic inspection. In two days time I'll be facing the Arena. It puts things like shoes into perspective. "You weren't surprised, then?" I ask timidly.

"Not overtly so, no." Cinna Raelius says smoothly as the soft clack of metal begins to take hold around my waist. "Victor Ivan Klerkov is renown for being a killer, a drunk, and a voracious hit with the ladies. We Stylists don't pay much attention to public appeal so much as we look at cloth. The Games' audience generally cares more about the Tribute's dress, but a Stylist's life is made by dressing a Victor. And Klerkov's costumes have been cohesive throughout the years, too much so to be coincidental. Perhaps the workmanship of an excellent imitator, but every art student hears of Tiberia, and those wise study her well. I merely recognized her signature. I sought what I believed to have been her Apprentice, and instead found the Master. And for that, Petra Angelovna, I'm glad I stayed, even if only to get my fingers stomped."

"Tiberia," I say suddenly.

"What about her?" He asks. More metal. Tight and cold across my chest and arms.

"She's old. Really old. Tasha said she was a Stylist for the first Hunger Games."

"Pushkina was right," he consents, strapping my forearms with silk stocking.

"So she'd have some good stories." Stories of a world before the war, before District 13 was annihilated…

"Stories? Try _Outfits_." Tight cinch. More leather. "Her Victor's Gown collection for District 1 is still on display in the Capitol Museum. Seventy-one years later and it's still the most photographed exhibit in Panem. Over half of those costumes were never worn, if that gives you any idea how impressive she was."

"Never worn?" I ask, a sinking feeling in my throat.

"They," he struggles for the right words as cold metal encases my arm. "The Tributes they were designed for weren't always the Victors."

I shudder. "So they died."

"If you prefer to see it that way, then yes. They died."

There's a nervous drop in the pit of my stomach. "I thought Klerkov said she was the _best._"

"Best at Outfits, surely. But you can't mistake that for winning. Outfits will only get you so far."

"How far?" I press.

"Based on what I've seen of your costume, which is only one of twenty-four?" He chuckles. "I can't really say until I've seen the competition, now can I? Hold these," he orders, quashing my breasts together under the leather and into my ribs. It nearly knocks the wind out of me. "High as you can."

I slap him. I mostly miss, but still hear the satisfying thwack of skin on skin.

"Careful," Cinna warns.

I sneer."You're worried I'll break a nail?"

"I'm worried you'll split my _skull_. Those nails are sharp. They're also heavy. So hold these," he again hands me my breasts, "but not to tight or you'll lose what little you have, got it?"

I sigh in resignation, cupping them gingerly, for an awkward moment reminded of Crybaby's spying and my panic. With a jolt I remember it was only last night, and already it seems a world away. Yesterday I was screaming in rage and burst into tears when my Mentor saw me. Today, strangers can order to me to undress at will and I comply.

"…but District 1 has Cassius, he's always the retro-modernistic look," Cinna's voice brings me back. "District 2 has Agrippina, and she'll go for nude, I'm almost positive. Twin incest is a popular subject amongst the manga subculture right now-don't _tut_, Petra Angelovna, I'm just stating a fact_," _he counters sharply. "Alright, now let go as quickly as you can-"

My fingers and nails grate out of pre-formed metal cups, now cinched and tight. My breasts barely fall, but even squished, boosted, assaulted and augmented from every direction it's everything in the Capitol's power to get the damn things to touch.

_B'lyad_. It's also _painful._

"You might have warned me it was going to hurt," I hiss, breathless.

Cinna laughs. "Pain is the price of beauty, Petra. Not that you'd know anything about it. District 3…Gallus. Neoclassical," he continues his lecture. "He's running out of ideas, hence the shunting from 1 and now 2. If the old crow doesn't dress a Victor this year, he'll be posted to 7 or above, I should think. Districts 7 through 12 have mostly Novices this year, no great talent there, I went to all their Masterpiece exhibits last year and walked away not only unimpressed but wholly disappointed. Although the female Tributes from 8 and 10 will still have the advantage. "

Right. They're sexy. Looks won't let you live in the Arena, but they will buy you food, water and medicine if you have even the slightest amount of courage, or cleavage. Which, judging by the amount of pain, _I _might now actually have.

"You do realize I don't have a clue what it is you're saying, right?" I frown as he buckles the last cold metal plate tightly into the leather crisscrossing my arms and back. "You are so your brother's brother."

"None of that," Cinna Raelius says, the sharp hint of a snarl unmasked by his pleasantness. Something heavy is attached slowly to my shoulders, draping me with weight and heat. I hear it whisper as the trane falls, fanning out on the ground behind me. "What I just said, Petra Angelovna, in terms that you're too droll, uneducated, or unappreciative to understand is that given the circumstances, I'm betting on _you_." His left hand tears the blindfold from my eyes, and with his right he spins me before the mirror.

The lights blind me. I blink. Focus.

Cinna grins. "What do you think?"

…well, _fuck._


	27. The Outfit

**The Outfit**

**AN: So who made it through 2 months of winter time pediatrics without getting sick? This girl! (...and who started out surgery block getting sent home from the hospital so not to bring germs into the OR? This girl!) All you readers are wonderful for sticking with this and I'm going to try my best to update for you. Give a sick girl a break and drop a review!**

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><p>…Fuck.<p>

Shit.

_Damn._

Is that really…_me? _But that terrifying woman in the mirror moves when I move, breathes when I breathe, blinks when I blink. I am her. She is me. And right now, I scare me a full minute, Cinna Raelius watches me gape, speechless, adoring the costume—and myself—from every angle. "So," he interrupts with a grin, "what do you think?"

I tear my eyes from the mirrors and wipe my face of emotion. I shrug. "Not bad."

"You lying bitch, you think it's perfect," he growls playfully.

"It is," I agree breathlessly. "Well, it isn't. I don't know." Eyeing myself again, I begin to have doubts.

"But you like it?"

I don't respond. I don't have to. It's the first time I've been able to face myself in a mirror without shame. I fucking love it. I've known several kids who've experimented with morphling, Vladmir—the Mayor's son—being the most obvious example. It's an endemic problem in 6, leading to disfigurement, disability, and even death. I've always questioned what the allure could possibly be for those my age, watching our parents' generation die slowly of the same poison. Now I know. It's an addiction…and this costume must be what it feels like.

It's not a just something you can see, but feel and hear as well. Smooth, supple leathers gird my legs, waist, and chest; cold links of tinkling bronze steel sway from my waist with the tiniest of movements; hot, sweltering fur and pelt cascade from my shoulders, dragging lifeless on the floor behind me, the weight tugging on leather straps and bronze studs; plates of intricate armor catch the light, iridescent; and a plain black brooch, cold and hard as granite, lies over my left breast. Lies over my heart.

_My Petra. My Stone-heart_, some of my father's last words. It hurts to know his pet-name for me will soon be spoken among the masses.

"Do you get it?"

"What?" Cinna. I forgot he was here.

"The symbolism," He insists. "Do you understand the symbolism?"

"I look…terrifying," I think aloud slowly. "But it's just ridiculous, isn't it? This whole outfit is impractical-this armor doesn't cover my entrails or my heart, it wouldn't protect me in a fight, the cape would only get in the way, and Cinna, there's no way anyone could actually _move_ in these shoes."

His grin grows wider. "But do you get it?"

I cross my arms. "Apparently _not_."

"You recognize it as impractical, but the Capitol citizens _won't_. That's the irony. To them, you'll just look like Death incarnate…and for tonight, that's who you'll be."

It's genius. Tiberia's genius. It's also _pointless._ "What's the point if no one gets it?"

He nods, impressed. "The intelligensia will. And they're the ones with the money for Sponsorship. Trust me, Petra Angelovna, they'll be eyeing you very, _very_ closely." Whether he means for wagering or hoping one of my breasts will accidently spill out during the Chariot ride, he doesn't say. Cinna Raelius—Tiberia—made me look dangerous. This outfit will fool the Capitol into seeing me for what I already am: a killer. Klerkov's words from this morning come back to me, and I appraise my reflection anew.

…_damn._

Something's still wrong, though. "I thought the Outfits were supposed to reflect our District." I frown.

Cinna shrugs. "It's become a tradition, yes, glorifying the Capitol's use for the Districts instead of representing the Districts themselves. Tiberia started it, if you can believe that!" He laughs aloud, eyes as absent as a schoolboy with his first infatuated crush. "But I've checked, and it's nowhere in the official rules. And if you want to be picky (which, being you, you will be), I'd say that costume does pay homage to your District's most valuable export to the Capitol."

I glare. And in this costume and make-up, even Tasha Pushkina's eyebrow couldn't be more frightening. "Which is?"

His face grows serious. "Victor Ivan Klerkov. Winner of the forty-seventh Hunger Games."

* * *

><p>I exit the dressing stall. The waiting entourage seems quite impressed.<p>

…everyone but Cry-baby, that is. He squirms away from the Avox and tugs my skirts to be hoisted. I comply. With difficulty. Between the cape and the boots it's everything I can do to stand. But with his boyish embrace the power of Tiberia's chariot outfit shatters: it can't even scare _Xavier Malcovitch._ I'm fucking doomed.

"Well," Tasha Pushkina rises with a strained smile, "you can't fool him, can you?"

I shrug as Cry-baby nestles he cheek against my chin. "Apparently not." Her face is still sad. Sadder than she has right to be. _You misjudged me,_ I tell her. _I'm not afraid to be beautiful._

My Mentor catches my eye. "The outfit is…satisfactory?" He asks.

"Yeah. But I'm still pissed at you."

Klerkov merely shrugs his bearish shoulders. "This is reasonable."

I chew my tongue. "I don't understand."

"What?"

"This outfit," I explain. "You've made me look like a…a-"

"-cold-blooded dominatrix?" Cinna Raelius snorts. I've not encountered the word before, but I'm old enough to recognize _whore_ when I hear it.

Klerkov curls his great beard. "Well, yes, that is the plan. You are far from beautiful, Petra Angelovna, but in that gear you look like Hell in high heels. You must trust Victor Ivan Klerkov when he tells you all the men watching will give you a 'standing' ovation."

"It's your area of expertise, afterall," Tasha Pushkina returns coldly. "Of course she'll trust you."

I'm hesitant. "Isn't that exactly what they'll expect?"

"The crowd is fickle, impatient, and simple, _moya Pet'enka_," Klerkov utters gravely, eyes growing cold. "You must meet their expectations or fail. You are the Tribute, they are your Sponsors. You must please them or die."

Cinna Raelius has a different answer. "Perhaps you should do something unexpected."

"Besides going back for another Tribute, attacking her attacker, escaping from the Resistance and firing her Stylist?" Tasha Pushkina reminds him coolly. Last night she said my single act of seeming weakness left Panem scared shitless. "She's _Petra Angelovna_, Raelius. Something unexpected is exactly what they'll expect."

"So do nothing," I snort bitterly. "They won't expect that."

"No," Tasha corrects, "you've got to do something so unexpected they won't expect it, not even from you. It's not enough to fulfill their expectations anymore, Petra," she continues kindly, "or they'll become bored. Now you must _exceed_ them."

_You're fucked, Petra Angelovna,_ I clutch Cry-baby tighter. _Completely, utterly, totally _fucked.


	28. The Infiltrator

**The Infiltrator**

**AN: Thank you all so much for your patience! And reviews, those are nice too...**

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><p>"Tighten your core muscles!" Tasha instructs for the eighteenth time. For the past few minutes she's tried to teach me what Klerkov and Cinna cannot: how to be a woman.<p>

…More specifically, how to walk in heeled shoes. I'm not sure they're the same thing, but Cinna Raelius and Tasha Pushkina (and I infer, the _Capitol_) think otherwise. "Core muscles?" I gasp, still reeling from my last fall.

"Abdominals," Cinna suggests. "Glutes."

I give him a blank stare.

"Tighten your waist and…" Tasha flushes.

"-Lady parts?" he offers unabashed.

"So basically walk like I'm trying not to let a fart out," I rephrase from the floor. "Great."

"Oh, Petra, only you could take something so glamorous and make it grotesque," She groans sadly. " Sure you're alright?"

"I'm going into the Hunger Games, Tasha," I state, smoothing the folds of the bear-skin cloak as I find my feet anew. "Of course I'm not." But however I feel about these damn shoes, I'm grateful again for my Mentor. And Stylist. And even her Apprentice. Cinna's predictions about both Districts 1 and 2 for the Chariot ride are surprisingly close to the truth. The hell if I know what "retro-modernistic" or whatever that _govno_ is, but apparently Tasha—and the announcers—agree.

"Now that's too bold!" Tasha squeals as District 1's Chariot races across the Colosseum. Klerkov harrumphs. Cinna looks thoughtful. Tiberia's blind eyes are closed, content, but her cat's ears have turned to the sound of the vid. Her long tail twitches once, twice, then rests still as the Games critique begins.

"District 1:Tributes Luccan Sheen and Venice Shimmer!"

"Cassius' daring new pairing combines the iconic looks of Panem's past-" the announcer races, drowned by the noise of the Capitol's crowd. "-Clearly vintage material, but look at the bold cut and hemlines-"

"-with Sheen as poised as Snow himself!"

Sheen and Shimmer. They're tall. Strong. Well-muscled and well-fed. They're calm. Collected. Careers. Both have volunteered to be here, basking in the Capitol's glory, now assured of victory. They wear their paired costumes well…which means whatever their final intent, they've decided to partner for now.

My instincts were right, then, I decide as they raise clasped hands to accept the applause. _Undermine them. Break them apart. Get 1 and 2 to turn on each other._ I have the crowd. I have the costume. All I have to do is wear it well, and the Careers will be forced to accept me.

…which doesn't mean this Sheen or Shimmer won't kill me first chance they get. I've seen enough Games now to know the Alliance is a two-edged knife, and I've seen enough missing or disfigured fingers to know all blades deserve respect. My father isn't the only butcher in our village, but he's the one with ten fingers. Not large but strong, he's slow. Steady. Meticulous. He knows when to step in and strike, and when to jump back from the bull's horns of the boar's tusks. But Sheen and Shimmer aren't flailing animals in their death throes, incensed by the smell of blood. They're calculating, cool, _human_.

"Do you get it?" Cinna asks, jarring me from my plans.

"Get what?"

"Their outfits."

"They're-" I cast for the right word. "-'retro-modernistic'. Big deal."

"It is a big deal," he corrects, nodding my attention back to the screen. "Look closer."

He's a Stylist. I'm a Butcher from 6. I try to watch, but the colors, the costumes, they look like every other I've ever seen. Impressive, but pointless. If there's some underlying significance, it's as lost on me as the rest of Districts. "Sorry," I finally say. "Don't get it."

"Luccan Sheen is impersonating President-well, make that _Senator_-Snow," he signs in exasperation. "That's Snow's inauguration uniform, or a close replica."

Apparently the difference between saying and explaining is lost on both Raelius brothers. "So?" I insist.

"So Cassius's decided to go political," Cinna muses aloud. "This changes things. Either that or someone's decided for him. It's an election year, after all. My guess is some Senator paid a lot of money for that Costume."

Right. Sure. Bribes-there's a concept I can appreciate. As for the rest…"And the girl?"

"Isn't it obvious?" He asks with a superior smile.

No! I want to shout, but I'm sick of his arrogance. Sick of all of this…but it's no longer as trivial as it seems. Costumes buy Sponsors. Sponsors buy Victors. Victory…means life. If I want to win, I have to understand _how. _I'm too used to seeing the Games as a Spectator. As a girl from District 6. I have to see as a Tribute. A Sponsor. A Stylist. I close my eyes, and try to see past the image of a routine Career. Try to ignore her heels and bouncing breasts, the exposed skin on her long legs, the sneering, cold smile and charming wave of an assured Victor-

Then it hits. My eyes fly open of their own accord. I wheel to face my Stylist, but it just can't be-

"Wait, but that's-"

"-Tiberia." Cinna nods, impressed. "They've dressed District 1's female as _Tiberia_."

* * *

><p>"But why Snow?" I press Cinna as District 2's fanfare fills the hall. "Isn't that insulting? He's <em>Capitol<em>-"

"Yeah, but luxury goods like Peacekeeper Uniforms all come from District 1. It's their way of reminding the public that the government's appearance rests on their industry and innovation. It'll also force Sponsors to cover his Tributes, increasing his chance for a Victor. That's what being a Stylist is all about," Cinna explains, lazily sipping a glass of iced fruit. "Making an investment that will keep you rich and settled for a lifetime."

Now it's even more confusing. "Why will it force Sponsors?"

He shakes his dark head, green eyes rolling in impatience. "Do try to keep up, Petra," he chides me like a child. "It'd be a pity to waste such an original costume only to lose Sponsors after your interview. It's simple: not sponsoring District 1 will now give the appearance of disloyalty to the party and the President. In essence, political suicide for all aspiring Senators and their staff."

_My apologies. I didn't realize you were intelligent_. Marcus Raelius' words, not Cinna's. I doubt Cinna Raelius has ever apologized to anyone in his life. But I won't let that arrogance cow me. "But…_why?_"

"It would demonstrate their loyalty to another District's exports, showing food, medical supplies, or the technology the Capitol depends on as more important than the Party itself," he continues with an air of arrogance. "It would be tantamount to treason not to support such an avid supporter."

"That's just _dumb_," I blurt. But I speak too soon. Cinna Raelius' charisma has worked-I've become too familiar. Already I've forgotten Tasha's warning. In the corner of my eye I see her forehead furrow above her painted brows, her face frozen, for once ignoring Cry-baby's cuddling.

_So he tries to come off chic and cool, Petra, but underneath it all Cinna Raelius is just a lazy, arrogant __'slovoc__ who got this job because his uncle's in deep with President Snow. Boys like that make dangerous men._

I remember her warning, just as a tame bull remembers his instincts in the second my knife slits his throat. I, Petra Stoneheart-Baba Yaga Angelovna-was lulled into trusting him by his confidence and good looks. _Boys like that make dangerous men. _

_Pizda, Petra! _

To our surprise—and relief—Cinna Raelius only laughs, bemused. "I agree." But even though Marcus Raelius' flashing green and gold eyes sparkle with mirth under those long lashes that smile's warm charm never reaches me.

* * *

><p>My Mentor saves me. Victor Ivan Klerkov belches loudly and scratches his belly, sending the stench of vodka and onions wafting our way."For Games' sake-" Cinna protests, but Klerkov waves him off with his deadly hands, nails glinting with a poisonous sheen.<p>

"Yes, yes, for Game's sake," his deep voice echoes in the stone chamber. "You are not needed, boy. I must speak to my champion!" Before Cinna can begin to protest being called boy those bearish claws quash my flesh in an iron grip. He wheels me to the wall for privacy, but I will not cry out in pain. Victor Ivan Klerkov meant to hurt me, but I deserve to be punished.

"_Durak!_ You must keep your wits about you. Did Victor Ivan Klerkov not tell you there were spies? Plots? Accidents?" he hisses. "Have you not watched enough Games to know the betrayer is one _inside_ the Alliance? Trust no one, my Petra," he whispers, beard prickling my face. "especially _him._"

I can't lose him. I have to be his champion. In the Hunger Games Arena, Victor Ivan Klerkov is the best chance I have. I meet his gaze—and breath—unflinching. "I know."

"Do you?" He growls. "Then know they will use your weaknesses against you."

"I know."

"Do you?" Those nails bury deep into the oiled bristles of his beard. "Then tell me, _moya Petren'ka_…what is your weakness?"

"I-" I'm ugly. Uneducated. A backwoods butcher's daughter from District 6. And despite what all of Panem believes, I am willing to kill Xavier Malcovitch...and I will.

_What is your weakness?_ Klerkov's bloodshot eyes demand. I find myself floundering for an answer. In the long winter of my childhood an old man in the outlying villages survived by eating the remains of his wife after she died from the cold—so he claimed. My father always said man was incredible for his will to survive, that will was what set us apart from animals…my mother only gleaned if you must marry, marry someone thinner than yourself.

But now I know. Petra Stoneheart has a weakness: when the deep snows come with the dark nights, no one wants to be in a cave with a cannibal. And in 6, when winter grows cold enough, everyone knows the man who sleeps alone won't wake. "I'm too willing to survive," I tell him. "They know it. I'll be alone in there."

"No," Klerkov softens, that iron grip leaving my flesh to bite anew on my shoulders. "No, my Petra," My Mentor sighs. "No." Then he kisses me, folds me to his chest and as oiled leather, roughspun silk and his bearskin-like beard are etched into my cheek he whispers, "You are young and unloved. And now you are far from home. Do you understand?"

I feel a weight drop deep within, like I've swallowed a bitter bite of rotten meat or Petra's cold heart has finally turned to stone. I am weary. Ache. The world spins in a whirl of flashing colors in an orange dragon-silk kimono, raw and ripping like bleak winter winds over a sea of deadly diamonds. I shut my eyes, hold tight to father but Lilly bleats from Malcovitch's mute mouth as he stares blankly out of a pool of rich black blood but those eyes, those eyes are wrong, they're green and flecked with gold-

I won't cry. Can't cry. Can't let him—any of them—see me cry. But I can't force back the blanch. "You mean even—"

I can't say the name. Can't _think_ the name. "Even _Avitus _was just a ploy to get me close to him?"

"Perhaps," my Mentor whispers. "Perhaps."

_How can you live like this!_ I don't have to scream at him. Clasped in his arms even the Capitol's perfume can't hide the reek of piss, whores and vodka but even if he's fucked a thousand of them I know now Victor Ivan Klerkov only always drinks—and wakes—alone.


	29. The Intrigue

**The Intrigue**

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><p>The vid screen continues to blare District 2's anthem, but the chariot has been delayed due to 'extra security precautions'. Apparently after this morning the Capitol doesn't want another Libertas uprising on their hands.<p>

…an uprising the media have labeled escalating crowd violence, with Game Enforcer and Peace-Keeper force miscommunication.

"But two sides were firing!" I hiss to Klerkov. "They were there, the people _saw_-!"

"They do not deny two sides firing, _moya Petren'ka_," he explains. "They leave enough truth in their lie to be credible."

"How can people believe this?" I ask angrily over Malcovitch's immaculate curls. "After what they _saw_-"

"How can twelve Districts tolerate the Hunger Games when their own children were murdered only last year?" Klerkov intones sadly. "Answer me that, Petra Angelovna. That is the question that baffles me."

"I just don't understand," I mumble. In my arms, Xavier Malcovitch shrugs. "You're no help," I inform him, but Cry-baby is content to ignore me. He nestles his naked body closer against my armor, searching for my warmth.

"Understand what, girl?" Tiberia asks. Again, despite her blindness, her slitted cat eyes bore right through me.

"The Hunger Games," I finally state, so softly only Malcovitch and Tiberia's inhuman hearing can sense. "Why the Hunger Games, and why this ridiculous costuming? Chariot rides? Why bother with any of it at all? Why not just send for Tributes and execute them on TV and be done with it? I've tried and tried to come up with a reason, but it just doesn't make _sense_."

She pads closer, leathery soles silent, entirely noiseless except for the tapping of her cane. "It is not sense but what is sensed, girl."

"What is sensed?"

"Tradition." She hisses.

"Tradition?"

"Panem. It is an old word. Ancient word. From the world before the world before. Bread. Food. Life. Peace. There are other words, many forgotten, forbidden to utter." She bares her teeth, fangs glistening. "Tell me girl, what language do you speak?"

"The common, of course." The only.

"But your name, girl," Tiberia insists. "What is it?"

"Petra. Petra Angelovna."

"Petra, Daughter-of-Angelov, I tell you once there were many words for many things in many tongues. Now there is one. _E pluribus unum_. But names, names remain the same. Names. Myths. Curses. Small ripples, whispers, echoes. The dying tongue still speaks: _Ave, Caesar, morituri te salutant_."

"_Ave, Caesar, morituri te salutant_?" I repeat to my Mentor as Tiberia glides away. "Klerkov, what did she mean?"

"'Hail, Casesar. We who are about to die salute you'. Those words are forbidden." Klerkov warns, watching her retreating back with concern. "Do not speak them, _moya Pet'renka_. Ever again. People have lost their tongues for less."

* * *

><p>District 2's Tributes finally appear. And again, Cinna Raelius—regardless of whatever else he might be—was right.<p>

"Announcing Asha and Ashira Query, District 2 Tributes for the 72nd annual Hunger Games!" The twins are naked, shaved, bronzed and oiled to a shining glare in the vid. Her shoes are stone. A black magazine full of coppery bullets trails across his massive shoulders and chest. Both brandish rifles. They kiss, and the crowd loves them for it.

Tasha Pushkina raises a disapproving eyebrow. Cinna Raelius winks and mouths _I told you so._

I don't trust him. Don't trust myself to respond. Again, my Mentor saves me. "Ah," Klerkov sighs, clapping his hands in delight. "Now _that_ is a costume Victor Ivan Klerkov can admire."

"She's sixteen, you '_slovoc_." I hiss. His coarse face shrugs, unabashed.

"Would it bother you to know I have had much younger?"

I glare. "Yes."

"Then, moya Pet'renka," he strokes his oiled beard thoughtfully, still watching Ashira's antics on the vid, "I shall not tell you."

"Klerkov, you're a pig." Tasha adds.

"And how old were you, Natalayia?" He returns. "Thirteen? Fourteen?"

She uncoils like a snake ready to strike, eyebrows rising to magnificent heights."That's different-"

"It is not," he says coldly.

"He wasn't twenty years older than me!"

"You were also not a whore. And that is where the difference truly lies, does it not, Natalayia Pushkina?" He thunders. "I am but a humble customer. If you do not like the wares, take it up with the management or else _be silent_!"

Cry-baby buries his face in my cloak. I have minutes to be in the Colosseum, where my Sponsors—and life—hang in the balance. I can't walk in these shoes, can't trust my own Stylist, and now my Mentor and Escort are fighting. "Just stop it!" I shout in my best Tasha impression. "Stop it, both of you!"

They face off like snarling dogs, and Tasha's retort is nearly out of her mouth when the unexpected happens.

"Victor Klerkov?"

"VICTOR _IVAN_ KLERKOV!" Klerkov roars, long strings of spit spraying Tasha as he wheels.

"I h-have Victor Victor K-klerkov," the mousey Game Enforcer squeaks, dropping her radio and papers. "D-district 6?"

"Ah, yes," he immediately adopts a less terrifying pose. "Victor is my first name, and title, but my full name is-"

Tasha silences him with just one eyebrow. "Yes?"

"T-the Stables request your Tributes," she stammers. "Districts 1 and 2 have d-disembarked, and Districts 3 and 4 h-have already loaded."

"We're on our way," Tasha informs her smoothly. The girl nods, and takes off at a run. Malcovitch wrinkles his nose at the scent of urine.

The door swings shut, and my Mentor and Escort clutch each other fiercely in attempts to stay upright. Cinna Raelius cracks a wry grin. Xavier Malcovitch hiccoughs out his nose. Only Tiberia doesn't find it funny. "That-" Tasha gasps, "that was-"

"_Pizda!_" Klerkov chokes red-faced, untangling himself from her kimono with difficulty. "So much for District 2! Perhaps the mining would have been better, yes? For costumes? Peacekeepers, ha!" he slaps his great thighs. "Come, my Petra. And little _zaychik_. The Capitiol awaits."

* * *

><p>I can't carry him in these heels. But the moment I stand him on the floor I realize something's wrong. "But what about Malcovitch?"<p>

"What about Malcovitch?" Cinna asks, intrigued.

"Not you too," I state emphatically. "We can't leave yet. He hasn't got his outfit on!"

"He is dressed," Klerkov echoes Tiberia.

I glance down to Cry-baby's curls. "You spent three hours on his _hair."_

Klerkov peruses him carelessly. "I know."

I'm unprepared. "You're sending him out _naked_?"

"Naked?" My Mentor chuckles, "Goodness, no. Little bunny will wear this." A studded, spiked, collar of leather and iron with a heavy chain.

I'm aghast. "And what's Xavier supposed to be? My _pedik_-?"

Beneath his beard, Victor Ivan Klerkov grins mercilessly. "Art mimics life." Cinna Raelius' flecked eyes grow huge.

"We sleep together!" I shout hotly. "It doesn't mean we…_bang!_"

"Bang?" Klerkov laughs. "Dear heavens, is that really what your generation calls it? You really do need to learn to relax, _moya Pet'renka_," he ruffles Cry-baby's hair while attaching that choker. "You are ever so much a prude."

* * *

><p>"I didn't believe him," Cinna Raelius has lagged behind with me. In these heels I can't even keep pace with Xavier Malcovitch. For now, Klerkov holds the other end of that metal leash, and it's a queasy sight. With his elaborate head of curls, painted eyes and smooth, boyish skin, Cry-baby looks all the world like a <em>izvrashenets<em>' dream.

"What he said about you and Malcovitch. Not really."

I flush, but offer no reply.

"What, you're not talking to me now?" he grins. "Did Klerkov tell you not to trust me?"

"He said trust no one," I answer evenly. "You're included."

Cinna laughs. "And what makes you think you can trust him?"

"I-" I pause to think. "He's my Mentor. He's done this before."

He snorts. "Yeah, and for twenty-four years he's just let kids die. Does that sound like someone who's trustworthy to you?"

"Oh, and you are?" It's hard to look intimidating when taking mincing steps and trying your damn best not to fall over. But I sure as hell try.

"What's that supposed to mean?" He asks coolly.

I know my weakness, Klerkov. And you were wrong. I'm going to die in the Capitol from having to have the last word. "You have an uncle on the Senate," I remind him. "Close to Snow."

There. Now I've said it.

…Fuck.

Cinna drops the charm as easily as shedding a shirt. The warmth in those green eyes fades into stony jade. "Someone's been talking since you arrived."

"It's the Capitol," I say, trying to pick up my pace in the dimly lit tunnel. "People talk. I just happened to hear."

"Yeah, it's the Capitol. And you don't know a damned thing about the Capitol, Petra Angelovna, do you?" He pants, jogging to keep up. "You think you can trust Klerkov just because he's from your District? Since he's your Mentor?" He sneers in disgust. "Tell the old man he's slipping if he's telling secrets to a girl who can't keep her mouth shut."

"Klerkov didn't say- "I stop myself.

"But Pushkina did." Cinna replies. "How lovely."

I flush. "I never said-!"

"But you implied." His voice is icy. "I told you, Petra, you don't know a damned thing about the Capitol or the Hunger Games. In fact, you don't know a damned thing about Klerkov or Pushkina and I could tell you some stories that would make your head whirl."

My Mentor. My Escort. My only hope, only chance…"I don't believe you."

"How about Pushkina's mysterious sleepover and the suddenly dropped Peacekeeper investigation into a morphling overdose?"

I keep walking.

"She was barely your age, too. The girl who died," he calls.

Fuck you, Cinna Raelius. "Stop it."

"Or my personal favorite, what happened to the fourteen year-old whore from 12 Klerkov was screwing on his first Victory tour? I hear in 6 you call him the '_Man_-Eater', but you really ought-"

I can't help myself. "I said _stop it-!"_

"You're in the Capitol now, Petra Angelovna," he says plainly. "And if you were honest with yourself you'd say there was no one, and I mean _no one_, that you can trust. Who knows? Even Malcovitch could be pulling a Mason and just faking it-"

_They will use your weaknesses against you._ My stomach knots and my veins turn to ice. "Don't you even say his name."

Cinna blinks.

…I've scared him, I realize. In this armor, in the dark, even surrounded by Game-Enforcers and cameras I've scared him. Maybe he's seen the vids from this morning, maybe he hasn't. But I know for damn certain that Tiberia's costume has worked.

"You leave Xavier Malcovitch alone," a woman's voice orders. "You and everybody else. Or I'll kill you. It'd be easy, like gutting a pig."

"You wouldn't dare," Cinna steps forward cautiously, testing the ice. "Not here. Not now."

"Because you and your brother were nice to me? Because you're my friend? Because we're surrounded by Game-Enforcers and the whole world is watching? Think again. This morning I bashed a man's brains out with a rifle on live television, Cinna Raelius," she continues, "and you know what they did?"

A vein pulsates in his neck. "What?"

"Nothing." I stare him in the eye. "Absolutely fucking nothing. I'm a Tribute, and until I walk into that Arena I'm goddamn untouchable. So what were you saying?"

"You're good," Cinna finally says, his expression lost in the darkness. "You're really good. You had me going there for a second, but you're lying."

"Am I?" I ask him. "Look into my eyes. Am I lying?"

It takes him a long, long time. "No. You're not." He swallows. "But neither am I. There are things you need to hear, now, before walking out into that arena for the world to see."

"And why should I listen to you?"

"No reason," he says. "But if I were in your shoes—which right now looks rather painful—I'd want to know as much about the people around me as I could."

He's right, I realize. As much as I hate it he's right. "Fine," I chew my tongue. "But this doesn't mean I trust you."

* * *

><p>"Klerkov is from your District alright, but he's a <em>Victor<em>. He doesn't give a shit about whether you win or not, he'll be supplied with liquor and women all the same," Cinna mutters under his breath as we struggle to keep up. "Pushkina's an Addict, and she'd do anything to keep it from going public, and I mean anything, Petra. She'd sell you and your pretty little idiot friend for freedom or a few grams for her next fix."

"And I suppose I can trust _you_?" I hiss.

"Sure." He shrugs. "I'm the only one with everything to lose—or gain—from your Games. The longer you live, the better I look. Unlike Klerkov and Pushkina, my Career depends on you walking out of that Arena _alive_. Klerkov will always get more Tributes. Pushkina could sell that body to any Vid producer, she doesn't need a Tribute to support her habit."

I turn to face him. "So basically I should trust you because you're a greedy _mudak_?"

"I don't know what that last part meant, but I have a pretty good guess." He returns. "And yes. It's the most rational choice."

He's right. I won't ever admit it but he's right. "Piss off."

"You piss off," he jokes half-heartedly.

"Oh go fuck yourself."

"You fuck yourself. You're the only one likely to-"

I shove him. Hard. He loses his balance, but these shoes betray me. In the split second before I fall my fingers scrabble for something—anything!—to hang onto.

…_Cinna_.

* * *

><p>We hit the sand in a sprawling heap, his weight and these laces knocking the wind out of me. Sand, hair, grit and leather fly into my eyes as I strike out blindly under this ridiculous cloak. "<em>Get off me get off me get OFF ME!"<em>

"Petra-!" Klerkov shouts.

"YOU LEAVE HER ALONE YOU MOTHERFUCKING SON OF A WHORE-" Tasha's dulcet tones ring through the tunnel. Even muffled by bearskin and Cinna the sound is deafening. "YOU LAY ON MORE HAND ON HER AND I'LL-"

"-Lovna?"

It sit up so hard it _hurts_. Our foreheads clunk!, then I shove him off me. "Did he just-" He did. He had to. Somehow I know there's only one person in the world with a voice like that, even if I've never heard it, only one reason Tasha and Klerkov would halt-

"Cry-baby?" I choke, blind and reeling. I fling the heavy cloak back, still wiping sand from my eyes and stagger up. "Did you just _talk_?"

* * *

><p>With the Game-Enforcers watching our little 'incident', Klerkov makes me apologize.<p>

"I'm sorry," I mumble, red-faced. "For shoving you."

"You're not the one who just insulted my mother's virtue," Cinna nods to Tasha, only her tattooes and wig hiding her flush. "We're good."

"Still. I might've hurt you."

He raises an arm as the uniformed Enforcers undo the metal cuffs, and long, parallel scouring marks mar the copper flesh. I wince.

"Don't worry, you got me through the cloak," he explains. "And that thing's so thick I doubt it'll show on TV. You'll be fine."

"Still. Sorry." I say meekly.

"Don't worry about it," he rubs the scratches thoughtfully. "Besides, I ought to be thanking you. You've just made me popular."

"Popular?"

"Yeah, when I go out tonight after the celebration people'll ask me about my back and arm, and all I've got to tell them is I spent several seconds in heaven on top of Petra Angelovna with _handcuffs_ involved and there'll be free drinks all around."

For several slow seconds I feel the blush on my face trickle even down to my breasts.

"Nothing to say?" Cinna says lightly. "That's a first." Then he bursts into peals of genuine laughter, so loud he grips his sides and moans. Even Tasha and Klerkov seem somewhat amused.

"What?" I demand. "What's so damn funny!"

"You!" He chortles. "Klerkov was right. You're such a _prude_."

"Like he would know," I counter hotly. "Victor Ivan Klerkov wouldn't recognize a prude if one danced naked in front of him."

Cinna gasps, spitting sand. "That's ridiculous!"

"You're ridiculous," I seethe.

"This is not true, my Petra," Klerkov says woundedly. "Why just yesterday I saw one on the train."

Now even Tasha Pushkina is giggling, albeit silently. I shut my eyes. "I hate you all."

Xavier Malcovitch makes a strangled, choking sound. He understands, I realize. And he _can_ talk…was Cinna right? Has he just been faking it-?"Not you, Malcovitch," Cinna says kindly. "Just the rest of us." Cry-baby capers and hugs my legs, tugging my cloak to be let up.

"Does this mean we're friends again?" Cinna asks with a playful grin as Malcovitch beams at him.

"We were never friends," I remind him.

"That can't be true," he presses. "I saw you naked."

So did Marcus...And Malcovitch. And Tasha. And Klerkov, and _eww. _"So?"

"So now you have to be nice to me, or I'll tell everybody how small your tits are."

His gold-flecked eyes sparkle, and Malcovitch laughs. Xavier Malcovitch trusts him, I realize…and all the fight goes out of me. "To be honest, I think everybody important already knows," I concede.

"So there is someone, then." Cinna cajoles with a knowing smile as the Enforcer escort redoubles our pace. "Who's the lucky girl?"

"Girl-?" I sputter, indignant.

"Gotcha." He winks, and I can't help but smile grimly back.

_You are young and unloved. And now you are far from home. Do you understand? _Maybe Cinna Raelius is reporting to the Game Enforcers, maybe he's not. Maybe I'm a fool to trust him, but maybe, right now, as I place my life in Klerkov's bearish hands I simply need a friend.

* * *

><p><em><strong>AN: Like "dubbing" and shocking patients who have flat-lined, the use of this phrase before every gladiator combat is most likely a widely accepted misconception popularized by Russell Crowe and Ridley Scott, to name a few. But however historically inaccurate it may be, it's a nice touch.<strong>_


	30. The Sacrifice

**The Sacrifice**

**AN: If anyone else feels like this fic is taking forever, that's because it is. Action in the next chapter, I promise!**

* * *

><p>"Petra, you'll have to walk faster," Tasha Pushkina encourages.<p>

I sink ankle deep in sand. "I can't walk in these damn shoes, I told you that!"

"But you must," Tiberia's harsh voice rings from somewhere ahead of me. "There is no other way."

"I have to _stand_ in them," I tell Tasha as she leads Malcovitch by the hand. "Walking is an entirely optional matter." Cry-baby skips along beside her, bare feet treading easily through the uneven ground.

"You and I are talking later," I remind him. "And you are so not sleeping with me tonight." Not after these ridiculous costumes and absolutely scandalous implications. If District 2's Tributes will attract attention, I can't even imagine what our own pairing will incite.

Xavier smiles, and wrinkles the corners his overlarge eyes. "What else can you say?" I demand, unimpressed.

"I don't think he was actually talking," Tasha intones. "He just made a noise, that's all."

"I don't care. I'm tired. I'm sore. He can go make noise somewhere else tonight."

"It'll be over soon enough," she promises. "And I'll see about getting you a foot and calf massage, okay?"

Sure. Just not from Klerkov's whores. We walk in silence for a long ways. "You're awfully quiet."

"Did you-" I stop.

"What were you and Raelius talking about? It's safe now," she whispers, barely audible over the din of the crowd in the Colosseum above us. "No one can hear you."

_Did you really fuck a Peacekeeper to avoid being an Avox?_ I want to know. _Did you really kill that girl?_ But I can't ask that, can't doubt her, not after all the things she'll told me about the Capitol, losing her virginity, the mothering and backrub she gave me on the train…

"Never mind," I finish glumly. "It's not important."

"He told you things, didn't he," she states, her slanted eyes sad.

My head jerks stiffly.

She presses my hand. "Ask anything. Anything, Petra. Perhaps you're not a woman yet, but you're a grown girl and I'm not afraid to answer. I have nothing to hide from either of you."

"Cinna said you overdosed a girl and slept with a peacekeeper to cover it up," I race. "He said that Klerkov _ate_ a whore-"

Her masked face is unreadable. "You'll have to ask Klerkov about that," she replies.

I groan. "And you?"

"I did." Tasha Pushkina tells me without hesitation. "I'm not proud of it but I did."

"Tasha-"

"I was careless with the dosing and she was naïve to the drug. I should've known better but I was already high myself." She admits.

"Why?" My heart pounds. I have to know.

"Why what?"

"Why sleep with him?" I demand desperately. "After everything you told me on the train-"

"It was do what was asked of me or die, Petra." She says after a long, long pause. "You're going into the Hunger Games, and you'll understand that, soon enough." She accidentally killed one. I mean to outlive twenty-three. I shudder. "Be careful," she tells me in parting. "Of him. Of _both _of them."

"I have to trust him," I decide. "He was honest with me." I have no choice. Of all the people I've yet to meet, Cinna Raelius has been the only one with nothing to hide. He outright admitted to having an uncle on the Senate…and a brother who is far too critical of the Capitol's politics. But regardless of whatever else, Cinna Raelius still wants-needs-me to _win_.

Tasha Pushkina stands on tip-toes but can barely kiss my cheek. "You're young, Petra. So very young. Don't mistake him for your friend just for that. Being honest isn't the same as being _kind_."

* * *

><p>The Chariot is waiting for us. Klerkov and Cinna take my hands to hoist me up. I can't make the step in these impractical shoes. Tasha bundles Cry-baby in beside me.<p>

…_this is it,_ I realize. _The Games begin _now.

"You must be, girl." Tiberia rasps. "Do not forget who you are."

"I won't," I promise. "Really."

"Ready?" Klerkov asks me appraisingly.

"Ready." I affirm.

"Really?"

"Hell, no." I admit. "Not at all."

"Good." He slaps my leg with a wink. "You will do fine, my Petra, eh? Stand up straight, show the world you are not ashamed of your breasts and Victor Ivan Klerkov will do the rest."

I want to believe him. I wish I could, but Cinna's warning still echoes in my ears. _He's not let you down yet_, I remind myself.

…_no, Petra, it's worse than that. Victor Ivan Klerkov has outright _used _you._

"Be careful, Petra." Tasha says, tearing. "Take care of him."

"I will," again I promise Malcovna. "I will."

"And for Games' sake don't fall on your ass in those shoes," Cinna Raelius interrupts drily. " 'Petra Angelovna, the girl-who-fell'. You'd never live it down."

He's wrong, though. If I fuck this up I won't have a chance to live at all.

* * *

><p>District 5's anthem is all but lost. Above us, all around us, outside that gateway the Colosseum erupts into cheers. Malcovitch stands on tip-toes beside me, trying to get a better look. "We'll see it all, soon enough," I promise him. "And they'll cheer for us. They have too."<p>

Our driver mounts in front of us, groomsmen brushing the last flecks of sand from the horses' harness, slicking the last patch of fur smooth and sleek with spray. "District 6 is confirmed loaded," the Game Enforcers state into their radios. "Repeat, District 6 is loaded without incident." And by incident—and the presence of so many Enforcers and Peacekeepers—I can only assume they mean Libertas. They try to lead Klerkov and Tasha to the stands, but I call them back. "Stay," I ask. "Please?"

The head Enforcer is unrelenting. "Mentors, Escorts and Stylists watch from assigned seating areas-"

"_Blyad,_" Klerkov returns, suddenly drunk again. "I am Victor Ivan Klerkov! This is my champion! If a Tribute says to stay, then Victor Ivan Klerkov will stay!" He booms. Outright belligerence, yes, but disguised so well under the pretense of a great drunken bear with dangerous claws even the Capitol's orders don't seem so urgent.

"We will await you," The Enforcers concede. "But your own head be it, Victor Ivan Klerkov, if you're late for the press." My Mentor winks.

"It's missing something," Cinna says skeptically, scratching his chin. "I'm not sold."

I'm in no mood to deal with him. "Cinna Raelius, it's fucking perfect, that's what it is."

"No," Tasha Pushkina says after a very long, very thoughtful pause. "It's missing something."

"What, boy?" Tiberia asks solemnly. "What is missing?"

"The final element," he states in such seriousness I'm tempted to laugh.

"I agree." Tasha continues. "Anyone with enough confidence could wear that costume. It's not yet fully you."

Supple leather encases me from foot to thigh. Armored scales and links of chain cinch my waist and breasts. My hair and helm rise to startling heights and the pelt of a black bear hangs from my exposed shoulders. I remember my reflection, and I look terrifying. "Klerkov, do you have any idea what they're saying?" I ask helplessly.

He shrugs morosely. "Ask me about women, _moya Petr'enka_, or vodka. Those are my areas of expertise," he harumphs. "Here I must defer."

"Blood." Tasha Pushkina finally blurts. "It needs blood."

"The Butcher," Cinna mouth twitches. "She needs blood. Definitely."

"Human blood," My Stylist insists. "The blood of her enemies. It can be no other."

Even under her paint, Tasha Pushkina pales. "I meant, meant make-up, or, or paint or something-"

"But she would know, and in knowing, would be false."

"But the audience," my Escort reasons, "the _audience_ would never know-"

"But she would know, and in knowing, would be false."

Tasha resists tearing her wig only out of respect for the legend before her. "But we've less than ten minutes. Where can we get it that quickly?"

"We could always kill someone," my Mentor states drily. "That is also my area of expertise."

"Your brother, Marcus," Tasha Pushkina addresses Cinna carefully. "He'd have access to the blood bank, wouldn't he?"

"No time. And I don't need his help for anything," Cinna asserts haughtily, digging a pair of shears out of 'the survival kit', as he named it. "I've got this." Above us, District 5's anthem has stopped playing. For a moment the entire Capitol is silent, waiting with bated breath. Seconds churn to hours and as our own fanfare begins to play I watch with agonizing slowness as my Apprentice does a stupid, stupid thing—

"_Cinna, no-!"_

* * *

><p>The sheen of metal touches the coppery flesh of Cinna Raelius' arm. For an agonizing moment nothing happens. Then-<p>

A spurt of blinding, bitter red. It hits me square in the face, goes pouring down my eyes, my neck, pools under my breasts, spatters across the fur of my cloak and separates into film across the surface of the armor's links and scales. And in that moment I find I can not only walk but fucking fly in those ridiculous shoes and I'm at Cinna's side the moment he hits the ground. Fingers yank those scissors from the wound, staunch the bleeding with a strong grip, hands trained to take life now desperately trying to give it. But I'm not a medic, not Marcus Raelius. I'm Petra Angelovna, the Butcher, the Stone-heart, and I've not been trained to save a life, no one's ever taught me how to save a life I only know how to take it—

_He's paler than Malcovitch_, I realize. _He's just gone and killed himself for a fucking costume._ Even under his hot blood I feel a coldness creep over my flesh. _It's much more sinister than that. He's gone and killed himself to try to prove that I should trust him_. "Cinna? _Cinna!_" I shake him. "Cinna Raelius!"

He whispers something, tries to form the words through the shock as thick, oily blood continues to spurt, soaking my clothes and skin, matting my hair and drenching the tail of the cloak. "Perfect," he manages to gasp, green eyes dying yet still ablaze with golden wonder. "You look…perfect…"

* * *

><p>"Stable 6 to Central, Stable 6 to Central man down, man down-"<p>

"Oh, shit, oh shit oh shit oh shit-" a girl is screaming as Klerkov's strong arms haul me back, shove me forcefully back onto the waiting platform.

"My Petra, there's no time!"

"Mentor, control your Tribute!" Harsh voices ripple through the nightmare.

"He's bleeding out, he, he cut an artery you've got to help him-!"

My Mentor's hands are torn from mine. "Petra, you must go-!"

"Help him! Please, somebody, somebody help him-!"

"Tiberia'll stay with him, he'll be fine!" Tasha shouts over the chaos. "You've got to get your ass on that Chariot!" I have to do this, I gulp down my tears. I have no choice. Cinna Raelius did this just to mess with my mind. He was nice just to make me vulnerable. He did this to make me cry and I'll lose my Sponsors, my Mentor, my life-

I will not cry. I will not die. Over the lip of the chariot I see Xavier Malcovitch curls, his eyepaint running in hot, confused streams. I shake loose the Enforcers with the brunt of my elbows and the rake of my claws. The horses smell the blood. Horses always can. They're uneasy, shying away from me, nostrils flaring, proud heads tossing with dark eyes rolling to show the whites.

I grab their halters, yank their balking faces to mine and bare my teeth as they struggle against their bits. They're stallions, yes, well muscled and fine to put on a show for the viewers of Panem, but they're broken. Spiritless. They will bear us to the other side of the massive Colosseum, and no where else. They've been trained to follow, unquestioningly, obediently, blindly.

…but no longer.

"I'm Petra Angelovna, and I'm not afraid of you!" I shake them fiercely. "I've butchered horses before. A metal rod under the tongue will bend you to my will, and a metal shard against your neck will still you forever. I've eaten horseflesh and I've tasted your blood. I've seen your naked hearts still beating and held your brains in my hands. Listen to me!" I command them. "When I touch the reigns _you will listen to me!"_

"Tribute!" The Driver stains against their snorting upset. "Tribute, what are you doing!"

"Something unexpected." I don't have time to look back. Don't have time to think. I have to be, and simply be. A booted foot catches him in the small of his back and he careens from the chariot with a yelp of surprise.

As the leather cracks against the horses' backs, Xavier Malcovitch's wide eyes look up at me unflinching, understanding,and unafraid. We're about to make our entrance, and the Capitol isn't ready for us. No one is.


	31. The Chariot

**The Chariot**

* * *

><p>Haze. Sunlight. Tumultuous roar. And speed, speed like I've never felt before wind tearing against my face squinting my eyes against whipping grit those stallions surge across the sandpit faster and faster under my urging until the stands and spectators blur behind us-<p>

BUTCHER. BUTCHER. BUTCHER.

I jerk the reigns. The stallions wheel. Sand showers us, sticks to hot blood and wind-whipped tears pours with sweat into my eyes as faster, faster, faster we race and frothy foam falls freely from the horses' mouths. The whip cracks again, draws bright red blood-

BUTCHER! BUTCHER! BUTCHER!

Game Enforcers try to bar us but we are unstoppable. Invincible. The horses bear down their necks and tear up turf as we charge that line of feeble men. They flee. Again we turn, arms burning hot, palms chafing we fly down the line and I laugh to feel such raw power unleashed. The whip cracks, the stallions jump as salty spray and bloody flecks pour down heaving flanks and churning legs-

BUTCHER! BUTCHER! _BUTCHER—!_

Onwards they charge, straining against their harness, fearing the wrath of bit and the raw crack of leather I saw the reigns and sand spews into the stadium, the wheels twist and for one glorious second we are flying—

_BUTCHERBUTCHERBUTCHERBUTCHER—!_

Their wind is breaking, great hearts dying. The Gamemakers' stand looms out over the Arena and with our last strength we charge headlong towards the silk pavilion—

They never swerve. Unquestioning, unhesitant, unfailingly they soar until with their last gasp of agony they rear, shredding silk and bone, harness and axel and the chariot explodes around us in splintering shards of shrapnel and sand.

* * *

><p>The soft bundle in my arms stirs. My face is on fire. I spit sand and raise my head, blind and deaf, then the burst of white fades to black fades to grey, dim shapes moving slowly, drunkenly-<p>

Beneath me, Malcovitch rolls and coughs, naked skin scoured and bleeding.

A dull roar. Sound booms back, the crowd inflamed shouting, chanting, shrieking, the Gamemakers fleeing as the pavilion collapses around us in tiers of silk and stone.

Far above me, a man is shouting. Even injured I know the face, in my madness am incensed. I shift shakily to my raw knees over Malcovitch's cowering, crawl hand over hand through splintered wood, and tarnished metal, snake between the horses bloodied corpses until the butt of the whip closes tightly in the heel of my hand.

I stand. Reel. Scream. The last thing I see as the Enforcers take me is the surprise on Seneca Crane's face before the lash hits home.


	32. The Explanation

**The Explanation**

Harsh, white light. I think of winter, think of home, think of the sheen of sunlight on the frozen shores beside our home. Irena is alive, Zoya is alive, Lidiya and Marta screech with laughter as flakes fall into their pale hair. It's nothing but a memory, a dream before the White Winter and the consumption that killed thousands. But that was years ago now, years since my father buried them one by one in the frozen grey earth so the unfeeling men in orange suits wouldn't come to burn them. So long ago now that in the darkness of night I have ceased to wake with dreams of girls who were not my sisters but skeletons instead drowning in mouthfuls of blood. The glare grows brighter, my sister's laughter fades. I know now it's not the glint of sun on snow that wakes me. This light is unfeeling. Heartless. Cold.

"Petra?" A familiar voice calls from far away. Green and gold-flecked eyes appear over me, full of concern. "Petra Angelovna?"

"Cinna," I mumble as the world stops spinning. My sisters are gone.

"I see you met my brother," Marcus Raelius says with a patient smile, the bell of his stethoscope laid lightly over my breasts. "Are you awake now?"

I try to sit. "Marcus-? Where, how, what…where's Malcovitch!" I demand weakly.

"Petra, lay down," he orders calmly. "Mr. Malcovitch is fine."

"_Blyad," _I spit, eyes rolling around. The small bay is crowded with cots, the wounded and bloody. Sharp cries permeate the air. _Libertas,_ I think. "Marcus, what happened?" I shudder. "Why do I feel so…tell me that's not a needle in my arm." I shut my eyes tight, unwilling to look.

"Lay still," he places another flat pillow beneath my neck. "You're in adrenal letdown but you'll recover if you just rest. Rest and let the medicine work."

"I ache _everywhere_," I groan.

"I would imagine so. The Game Enforcers were forced to use electroshock netting to capture you. Fortunately the voltage was low enough you sustained no musculoskeletal damage or subsequent renal injury," he continues to ramble. "Your neurotransmitters will be off balance, but they'll adjust within the hour."

"Capture-?" I ask dazedly. "Neurotransmitters? Where…" I remember something important, something pressing. "I have to get to the Chariot Ride!"

His face falls. "Petra-"

"Klerkov's going to kill me I've got to, got to…" I struggle even to sit, neck hanging limply, limbs flopping useless by my sides. I'm bloodied and scraped, bruised and covered in sand and I've never felt so helpless. Or scared. I have to go into the Hunger Games in two days time, and I can barely _move_.

I take a shuddering breath to control my fear. "What the fuck happened to me?" I finally whisper.

His green eyes are full of concern. "What's the last thing you remember?"

"I-" …_Cinna._ "I was…getting on the Chariot."

"The ride is over now, Petra Angelovna."

"I don't, I don't remember any of it."

"That's understandable," Marcus explains. "You suffered minor temporal lobe trauma in the crash, and a brief amnestic episode following such brain damage is typical. It's also probable you suffered a psychotic break."

I don't understand most of it, but glean the important bits. Crash? Trauma? Damage? Something happened. Something terrible happened out there in the Colosseum and now Marcus Raelius is hiding something from me. "Where's Malcovitch?" I insist.

"I'm treating him for skin lacerations and minor friction burn. He's fine."

I don't believe him. "I need to see him-"

"You need to _rest_, Petra Angelovna. If I see you attempt to get up again I'll sedate you," he warns, but not unkindly. "And we both know I will."

My head falls back in defeat, cemented hair giving way with a faint crunch. "Where am I?"

"Emergency medical bay, Petra. You're safe. I have other patients I have to attend to." He lays a gloved hand on my bare shoulder in parting. "Rest."

* * *

><p>I flit in and out of dark dreaming, but always I hear the sound of horses screaming. I shudder and cringe in the cold, but a heavy fur is tucked in around me smelling faintly of blood and vodka…of home. I sigh. Fade deeper into a restless, fitful sleep.<p>

When I wake again a cool, gentle caress falls against my face and neck, spreads trickling across my shoulders and chest, down my long limbs, clean and comforting all at once. I open my eyes, unfocused, and a dark hand wipes the grit and blood away.

Somehow I know he's standing over me. "What's going on?" I ask Marcus. "What happened?"

"You've had an accident, Petra, but you're fine now," his voice is calm and soothing.

"Where's Malcovitch?"

"Resting."

I'm awake now, I realize, but those horses are still screaming. I shudder. "Who are all these people?"

"Some were Gamemakers," he finally answers. "Most others were injured in the blast."

I raise my head weakly. "What blast?"

"An incendiary device went off in District 12's stable bay shortly after their Tributes had disembarked," he informs me. "Several hundred civilians were killed. These are the survivors."

"So they're safe?" I ask. "The Tributes from 12?"

"Yes," he bathes my face again. "It seems the device was rigged to destroy the Colosseum's infrastructure. Both Tributes escaped unharmed."

And the people? _What people_, I think bitterly. All those people in the stands, cheering us on, just waiting to watch our blood run. I remember a girl no older than Malcovitch snatching a hank of my hair, jubilant at her prize. "That's good," I mumble. "I'm glad they're safe." But it'd be a lie to say I'm not glad that those Capitol citizens are dead.

…I am Petra Angelovna, the Stone-heart. I have not yet entered the Hunger Games and already I have become a killer.

"You burned your hands on the reigns," Marcus Raelius takes my hands gently, folding them palm-up. "I'm going to graft them. It won't take long." He sits by my bedside. I feel my heart speed up, feel a little bit sick, feel a warm blush spread across my face. _Don't be a _durak,_ Petra_. _He's only holding your hand because you're injured and now he's going to stick a hundred needles in it._ Up close again he reminds me so much of Cinna, but the tell-tale, tiny wrinkles around his tired eyes say differently. He's got to be 30 at least, I berate myself, he's handsome, and he's grown up in the Capitol surrounded by women infinitely more noticeable than me.

…He also catches me looking.

I turn away.

He studies me intently, his stunning eyes watching the many monitors on the wall vid screens. "What are those?" I finally ask, writhing in our awkward silence.

"Vital signs," he cleanses my raw palm with a cool rag.

"Vital signs?"I whisper.

"Your cardiac rate," he expertly removes a splinter with tiny tongs. "Your respiratory status," I hear the crinkle of paper as he opens sterile packaging. "Your blood pressure."

"What's that for?"

"Your blood pressure?"

"No, that," I jerk my head towards my palm as he stitches something in place, glad for a legitimate reason not to face him.

"Recombinant mesh. Part porcine and part human with a DNA acceleration matrix. Your dermis and subcutaneous tissues will be fully reconstituted within a few hours."

Again his words mean nothing. Again he didn't answer my question. "So it's going to fix my hands?" I press.

He laughs a little, gives my fingers the faintest trace of a squeeze. "It's going to fix your hands."

He works in silence for a long while, gloved fingers touching me only briefly as he works the thread through my flesh. He's so adept, so gentle, it barely stings. "What happened?" I finally roll to face him. "Out there in the Colosseum?"

"You still don't remember?"

I shake my head.

"Shall I just say you caught their attention?" He evades an answer. "Tell me, where'd the blood come from?"

"…Cinna." I say quietly.

His startling eyes widen with concern. "Petra, is my brother alright?"

"I-" _don't lie, Petra_. "I don't know." Two brothers, so alike and yet unlike. "You met my brother Marcus," Cinna growled when I told him. "We're nothing alike…I don't need his help for anything." The mere mention of Marcus made him hostile. I find their disparity baffling.

"Cinna—" I begin.

"Doesn't share my sense of purpose or propriety, as you've probably become aware," Marcus says stiffly. "I apologize if he's done or said anything to upset you."

"I'm used to being teased," I reply. Ugliness and adolescence aren't a kind combination. "He doesn't bother me. He just doesn't seem to like you, that's all."

"Cinna wouldn't. He has good reason not to."

"But you're still worried about him?" I ask.

"Of course, Petra Angelovna." Marcus affirms. "He's my brother."

"Why wouldn't he like you?"

"I was older, quieter, academically and politically minded." he explains humbly, attention still focused on my hands. "Cinna was always questioning, artistic, outspoken, and charming. Our father—and uncle—made it clear from an early age which characteristics were admired."

"He's jealous," I rephrase, beginning to understand.

"Jealous?" Marcus laughs. "Hardly. Cinna is much nobler than that. My brother possesses the singular quality of absolute disdain for the opinions of others. If anything I was always jealous of him."

"Why? You're a _Medic._" I find it hard to believe. A Hunger Games Medic, I don't have to emphasize to him. Marcus Raelius has exclusive contact with Tributes the rest of the Capitol would literally kill for.

"And Cinna is an aspiring Stylist. He'll be known, applauded, revered. People will see him on the streets and Vids and say 'that's Cinna Raelius'. The work I do is important, yes, but I'll always be behind in the shadows. I have a mind for science, for planning and structure. Cinna understands people's hearts, how they work and how to reach them," Marcus says lightly. "And more importantly, he _can_."

"But you _help_ people," I object.

"I don't make as much a difference as I'd like," he continues. "Growing up I may have had the marks, the praise, the adulation from parents and professors, published papers and journal articles, worked with top researchers in the prime of their fields…" he finishes wistfully. "But my brother always had something I never did."

His answer makes me sad somehow. "What?" I whisper.

"Friends," Marcus Raelius stands abruptly, the final stitches in place. "Keep moving your hands. Retained elasticity is crucial for recovery of full range of motion."

_Friends_, I think, flexing my fingers as he walks away. He might be a handsome, educated man from the Capitol, but despite those differences Marcus Raelius and I are very much alike.


	33. The Tribute

**The Tribute**

**AN: I began writing this before the movie, and based my canon characters solely on my impressions from the books which is why they might now seem OOC. I had always pictured Cinna as a dashing young Stylist and a lot more 'hip' (especially his younger, less mature revolutionary self), and it's a little too late to change that now. Team Peeta? Team Gale? Please, people. The main male protagonist should have been _Cinna_. That being said, I imagined Marcus as his formal, slightly Che Guevara of an older sibling. I think it's important to know this while reading Lamb to Slaughter, since if your mental picture were Marcus as Lenny Kravitz' older brother, he'd be _way_ too old for Petra to be awkwardly crushing on.**

* * *

><p>"Please, please, somebody help me-" a girl's voice rings from the bed next to mine. We're separated by a thin curtain, sure, but it does little to stifle the noise.<p>

"Holi, it's time to rest," I hear Marcus Raelius tell her tenderly. "You'll be okay for now."Holi. I think back to the Reapings, but Tasha and I watched the broadcast on mute. I don't know her face, but the shrillness of her voice and smallness of her shadow tells me she's young. Maybe as young as Malcovitch. My stomach sickens.

"Please, _please_-!" Holi pleads. I see her shadow sit up and clutch Marcus tightly. "I broke my arm please let me go home I have to go home-"

"Holi, I'm going to get you something for the pain," He promises, drawing back on a syringe to place in her line. "The medicine should be taking effect now. Rest."

"Please," She chokes quietly. "You're a _doctor._ Help me. Help me, _please_…"

I roll over. Curl up. I should be relieved at one less competitor…but the child in the bed next to mine was never a threat. _Pizda_, I bunch the covers up around my ears as Holi sobs. _Why couldn't it have happened to Sheen or Shimmer?_

"You'll be alright, Holi," I hear him soothe, and somehow I know he's sitting by her bedside the same way he sat by mine. He might even be holding her hand. I feel a sudden stab of betrayal like a slap to the cheek. I should be used to it by now. I'm Baba yaga Angelovna, the butcher-girl with a man's shoulders and a horse's face. And worse, it would seem, to him I'm still a just a _child_, same as Holi. We're both just fleeting Tributes in his long career. I'm such a fucking fool to have ever allowed myself to think I was special…

"Please, I can't, not the _Games_ I can't go to the _Games_-"

The curtain swings back. I know he's watching me. I can't help myself. I have to look. When I roll over Marcus is old, old and worn, the golden shine gone from his hollow eyes. His handsome face is haggard and drawn."Help her," He says.

I stiffen. "What?"

"I have other patients. Help her."

"Marcus, I-" He thinks because we're both Tributes that I can understand. That I can help. I'm no good talking to other girls. Have never been. Holi needs comfort and I have none to give. "Marcus, I _can't._"

"Do it," he orders. "That little girl is suffering."

…_and I'll suffer, too, if you make me talk to her before I kill her. Or let her be killed. _Either way, Holi dies.

He walks away briskly, but he left the curtain open. A little girl with dark, streaming eyes and olive skin is staring at me from under a curtain of thick, glossy hair. I think back to the Reaping, but still can't place her. So very many terrified children blur together, but if I'm right she's the female Tribute from either 5 or 12."Who are you?" I finally ask.

"Holi. Holi Carnegie." She chokes.

"Which District?"

She lets out a sob. "You don't even _know! _No one does! No one here cares who I am!"

"Which District?" I ask again.

"Five." She sniffles. "I know who _you _are," she continues accusingly. "Everyone does. You're that Butcher the vids keep talking about."

"What happened?" I ask. "To your arm, I mean."

"Those shoes, my Stylist, I, I told her I couldn't wear them I begged her but she, she wouldn't listen an-an-and now I'm going to _die!" _Ire begins to burn, I can feel it rise in the pit of my stomach. Her Stylist should have _listened._ Her Escort should have stood up for her, her Mentor intervened—

But I've only _watched _the Hunger Games before, and as I think about it I doubt many have the support I do. Klerkov wants his Champion, for what reason I can't say. He's a Victor, well provided by the Capitol regardless of his Tribute's fate. Tasha is kind—too kind, I think. Even I have already all but forgotten the threat of that syringe of morphling hanging over her head. "I'm sorry," I finally tell her. "I'm really sorry, Holi."

"You're so lucky. You did so well. You're going to get Sponsors and I'm, I'm…I just want to go home!" As she rubs her eyes miserably I see paint on her nails, bright blue and silvery. Even in the dim light I can tell there's not a scratch on them. Her hands are soft, unused, clean.

_She's rich_, I realize. Holi Carnegie has never known hardship a day in her life. "We can't go home, Holi. Never again."

"_We're all going to die!"_ she shrieks. "_I don't want to die-!"_

_No, Holi. Not all of us,_ I think. _One of us will live._

…Me. I was right all along. I have no words to comfort her.

Marcus appears again suddenly, drawn by the sound of her screams. Wordlessly he draws another syringe and plunges the medicine into her veins. I gag. "You're going to sleep now, Holi." Her dark eyes roll back and her chubby, child's breasts rise deeply once, then still. For a terrifying moment I think he's killed her. His flashing green eyes meet mine inscrutably. I shiver.

What did I see there? Pain? Sorrow? Anger?

…Disappointment?

* * *

><p>I find it hard to get back to sleep. The cot is too short, my feet resting on the iron bar. Too narrow to curl up comfortably, and all around us are the sounds of the wounded and dying. I'm used to animals bleating, but this is different. For the animals, I feel only pity. For these victims of Libertas, I'm not so sure. I pull the sheet off my face and watch Holi sleep. She's short but buxom, perhaps thirteen. Already her breasts are fuller than mine. Her tinted skin is sleek, not blotched or pocked, and the tiny glimpse of teeth between her full lips is a startling white. She isn't beautiful, not by Capitol Vid standards, but she still has an air of childlikeness that makes her as darling as a spring-born kid.<p>

But the Capitol won't sponsor adorable. Not for long. She might win a few over, but as the odds thin out the betting changes. I've seen it before in the Games, the packages becoming fewer and fewer until one day they stop, and the Tribute is left to die of Careers or exposure. Year after year I never knew which to hope for. Nature in the Arena could be both the crueler or the kinder, depending on the Gamemaker's whim. Holi will be no different, she'll be sold to the slaughter. If she dies well, there might be some tears shed for her. even here in the Capitol. She's small and young. I doubt anyone would weep for me.

* * *

><p>I wake to the sound of raised voices. I roll to my stomach and peer around the curtain, searching for Tasha and Klerkov.<p>

Harsh lights glare down in the center of the domed ceiling. The hall stretches on in both directions, lined with curtained booths filled with the injured and the dead. A naked woman struts down the aisle, turning heads of patients and medics alike. No wonder they're arguing, that _mudak_'s sent one of his whores to come get me. But as she saunters closer I realize my mistake.

Klerkov's Avox were handsome, but_ normal. _The woman approaching has more genetic enhancements than I've yet to see either in the crowds at the Capitol or on the Vids. Her skin is slick, scaled and leathery, her neck webbed with a hideous hood. Her eyes are fixed, pupil's slitted like a snake's. Some of her scales glitter even in the cold light, off-set with jewels, creating a mask around her eyes, trickling down the hood where her hair might be, encircling her navel and a sparse smattering across her shoulders, the very tips of her breasts and all around her slit-and I doubt they're there for _modesty._ As they wink in the light, she casts withering sneers at the gawking men around her.

I watch her walk with mounting dread. _Beautiful women are forced to be seen,_ Tasha Pushkina's words come back to me. There's only one way the Cobra or any woman could afford an enhancement like that, and there's only one reason why they would. If Avitus' antics were any representative, I'd say she's an absolute _pizda_. From the look on Marcus Raelius' face right now he must agree.

"Medic, I require my Tribute," the Cobra demands, standing within a foot of him. _I'm sorry, Holi. I'm really, really sorry_...her Escort probably fucking _laughed_ when the accident happened.

"Your Tribute isn't ready to be released," Marcus informs her without withdrawing, eyes not so much as flickering to her breasts. "She suffered an open fracture of both the radius and ulna, over a liter of blood loss and intense psychological trauma. She needs further rest before I release her from my custody."

"Yes, yes, rest and rehabilitation," Holi's Escort waves boredly, tossing her near-naked body back and forth. "Both of which she can receive at the hotel. The press is _waiting_."

Marcus is unimpressed. "The press can continue to wait."

"Oh, for that little thing?" she sniffs through flattened nostrils, jabbing a jeweled fingertip to the booth next to mine. "I hardly think so. Everyone knows she's a dead girl walking…" her voice trails off coldly. "But I _do _have a sympathetic journalist who would love a shot of some sniveling and tears, he seems to think it adds a human side to the Games, the fool. It's the girl's only chance at Sponsors, Raelius. Take it or leave it."

"Holi will stay here until I see fit to release her."

The Cobra draws herself up, jeweled breasts brushing him as her hood spreads wickedly. "I'm her _Escort_."

Marcus Raelius doesn't so much as blink. "I'm her Medic."

She moves to strike. I nearly cry out, but Marcus is ready for her. An uncapped syringe is clutched tightly in his left hand, and as she surges forward the point pricks her skin. The snake recoils instantly. "You impertinent asshole!" She screeches, rubbing a rapidly rising welt spreading across the skin of her scaly chest. "_What have you done to me!"_

"It's only saline," he states coolly, capping it. "It can't kill you, but given your altered physiology I imagine it will _sting_ quite terribly. I suppose that's the price you paid when you stopped being human."

"You'll be sorry for this!" she swears.

"As will you if you do not adhere to the requisite protocol. You can have your Tribute in the morning, no sooner," Marcus informs her evenly. "Call your journalist friend. Tell him. In the meantime I'll allow you access to your Tribute, but if you deviate from protocol again I'll have Security remove you. _Forcibly_."

She sneers, her sinewy neck twisting sensuously, poisonous lips so close to his they nearly kiss. "Oh, and how long do you think the Enforcers will listen to the likes of _you_, Raelius?"

His eyes are stern."I have absolutely no idea what you may be implying."

"I hear trouble's coming," she spits. "For you. And all your little sympathizers."

"It's been lovely catching up, Iridina," Marcus slides the stethoscope from around his neck emotionlessly. "But I believe we both have work to do. If you'll excuse me." As he brushes past she sticks her forked tongue out and licks his ear. I find my hands have turned to shaking fists around the curtains.

She catches me staring. "What, Tribute?" Iridina hisses, fangs falling forward from the roof of her mouth. "What are you staring at?"

But this Iridina can't frighten me. I just saw a Medic stop her with nothing but a needlestick. "A snake," I state. "And a _suka._ Go find a man who's interested in fucking you. Maybe he'll even buy you _clothes_."

"At least a man _would_," she sneers scathingly, but I only smile. She huffs and hisses, then shakes her blinding tits at me before stalking off. _At least a man would_, she said. A man like Klerkov, perhaps.

..._Not mine_.

* * *

><p>"A Victor Ivan Klerkov is here," Marcus states mildly on his return, looking refreshed in Iridina's absence. "And he's threatened to tear me limb from limb, eat my intestines and drink my blood if I don't release you to him this instant." The corner of his mouth tugs into a smile. "Should I be concerned?"<p>

"Klerkov's drunk and blundering," I tell him. "He's also _dangerous_. You should probably do what he says."

"He's accompanied by a woman with terrifying eyebrows. Do you know her as well?"

"How terrifying?" I insist.

"Exquisitely," he intones with grave seriousness. We both laugh. "I suppose I ought to release you, then, Petra Angelovna."

"I suppose you should."

"We keep meeting like this," Marcus continues ruefully. "I fear if you leave my custody now another disaster will only be forthcoming." It's banter, like Cinna's, only Marcus Raelius lacks the charm and wit of his brother's crass flirtation. His failed attempts still make me smile.

"Perhaps you should hire a squad of Peacekeepers to keep me safe." I return.

His reply is a second too late in coming. "Perhaps I should." His face is frozen. Unfeeling. The air goes chill. I've said something I shouldn't have…but _what_?

"You're leaving?" Holi sits up in alarm, oblivious to the sudden turn in our conversation.

"My Mentor's here." I explain, glad for an excuse to turn away, pondering my words. _Perhaps you should hire a squad of Peacekeepers to keep me safe..._

"Oh." Her voice is small.

"Oh, _what?_"

Her dark eyes are downcast. "Mycah and I don't have one."

"You don't even have _Mentors?_" I demand sharply.

"No one wanted us," she whispers. "And besides, we didn't want to learn to_ kill_ people. I think it's awful."

I'm silent. "Don't you?" she chokes.

"Yes." I agree reluctantly.

"I don't want you to go." Her thick hair flies as she shakes her head. "I don't want to be all alone."

"I'll look after you, Holi," Marcus promises, left hand trailing to the pocket of his long white coat. _Needles_, the hair on my neck stands up. "I won't leave you all alone."

"I want _you_ to stay." She hiccoughs at me. "You're really _nice._"

Hardly. "I'm sorry about your arm." I distract her. "I'm really sorry."

"I want to see my mom!" she starts to cry again suddenly. "And, and my dog, and my best friend-"

"I'm sorry, Holi." I repeat. "I really am."

"Tell them I can't go, please tell them I can't go not like this please not like this-"

"…_oh_." Holi mutters softly, Marcus' needle jutting out of her nape. Something hot and gurgly hits the back of my throat. I can barely hold it down. Her neck arches back like a bird's as Marcus pushes her down against the pillows. "Do you think, maybe, maybe since I'm so weak they'll leave me alone?" her voice is hopeful, dream-like, far away. "Like Johanna Mason, that girl from 7? I'm not a threat," she yawns, the medication catching her up. "You tell them I'm not a threat. Tell everybody, telbody…tell I'm not a thr…" she begins to snore softly.

"_Would you just stop doing that!_" I gasp sitting back on my bed, face flushed and heart pounding.

"What?"

"Sticking people in front of me. Gah." I burp, still sick. "I need some water." When he returns with a cup, my fingers shake so badly I can barely hold it.

"I thought you were over your fear of needles," he lifts the water to my lips then takes it back before I can spill it all down my front. I would retort, but there's something much more pressing on my mind.

"What's going to happen to Holi?" I ask.

"I'll manage her pain," he evades my question.

"And in two days she'll go into the Hunger Games, won't she."

"Yes."

"Maybe she's right. Maybe she won't be targeted," I try to hope. "Since she's not a threat." _Right, Petra, and maybe some day you'll walk out to the kill shack to find all the animals have died peacefully in their sleep instead._

"You know she will be," Marcus reprimands me. "They always are. She won't be able to run or climb, not with that arm the way it is."

"So she's just going to die. Alone and _afraid_."

His answer is unflinching. "Yes."

"And there's nothing, nothing anyone can do to help her," I choke. Tears well up unbidden, but I will not let them fall. _Rocks can't feel. Rocks can't die_. Tasha was right: the Raelius brothers are only here to make me vulnerable, their every seeming kindness cruel and calculated. Nothing more. "Why the hell did you make me talk to her," I accuse him.

Far from angry, Marcus Raelius leans down to look directly in my eyes. His gold-flecked irises are dull and full of pain. "Because you're wrong, Petra Angelovna." He holds my gaze. "_You _can."

_That little girl is suffering_, he told me, and his words from this morning come back to haunt me: _ If I knew another way to ease his suffering, any other way, I'd do it._

I close my eyes. When I open them again, he is gone.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Denmark? Austria? United Kingdom? C'mon you guys. You can't intrigue a girl with a read from Europe and not give her a review. Please?<strong>


	34. The Replacement

**The Replacement**

**AN: This fic is dedicated to Irish Luck 19, who has managed to start and **_**finish **_**two completely amazing stories while studying for MCAT all in the time it has taken me to not even come close. Read, admire, and emulate her, all of you!**

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><p>"MOYA PET'RENKA!" Klerkov roars for all of Panem to hear. "BRAVISIMA!"<p>

"Er, what?" I manage to gasp around his bear-like grasp, his breastplate cold and crushing.

"Just smile," he hisses, his embrace lifting me off my feet. "WELL DONE, WELL _DONE!_" Bright flashes of light leave my eyes dry and sore. Applause breaks out, even here on the hospital floor. Outside the windows, Game Enforcers and Peacekeepers alike keep the mounting tide at bay. Their noise is muted, but even now I know what they call: _Butcher, Butcher, Butcher…_

My Mentor again surprises me. He raises my hand high in his sweating palm, spins me for every camera to see, bellowing his bloodthirsty approval—and drunken, slurred curses—in every combination imaginable. Even dazed and dizzy I realize he puts on a show just as well as Tasha. Perhaps even better. When he finally relinquishes me, it's her turn.

She's resplendent and fresh, as glowing as a frozen picture from the Capitol vids.

Xavier Malcovitch cowers behind her, eyes turned to the waiting crowd outside. He's scared shitless of them, as well he should be. I still don't know what happened in the Colosseum. _Shall I just say you caught their attention?_ Marcus refused to answer. All I know is that in the two days I've known him, this is the first time Cry-baby hasn't run to _me_ for protection.

Klerkov prods me in the small of my back. I have no choice. The crowd—my _Sponsors_—are waiting."Hey," I say to him. He buries his face in Tasha's ass, pulling her dress around him to hide.

"I'm sorry you got hurt," I tell him.

"Xavier, go say hi," Tasha encourages. She ushers him forward, and I catch a glimpse of his bare back as he clings to her. I wince. Small stitches run in patches from the nape of his neck to thighs. He's been grafted, like me.

"I've got some, too." I open my hands. "See?" He traces them timidly, then flings his thin arms around my neck. Even with his added weight, I find it easy to stand.

Through the glass, the crowd's response is deafening.

"Where's Cinna?" I ask Tasha's newest wig as she finally hugs us.

"Hospital. He's fine," Tasha races in my ear over Malcovitch's mussed curls. "And Petra?" She holds me out at arm's length, beaming for all the bystanders to see.

"Yes?" I smile back, stomach sinking.

"Be nice," she hisses through her perfect teeth. "With 12's Stylist team missing the city's in an uproar. This is all I could find."

"Who-?"

…_Oh, ch'yort._

* * *

><p>They've put us in a private room for preparation. All we have to do is walk out to an armored car, perhaps 10 yards, and it requires the largest Peacekeeper presence the Capitol has seen in many years. It'll also require another Stylist, or Stylist's Apprentice, and the vacuum created by the death of 12's entire prep team has left the Capitol in short supply…of extras. All available and eligible help are currently vying for the open slots. I've been here less than a day, but with every new atrocity the Capitol is even more vicious than I'd imagined.<p>

…and I'm not even to the _Games._

"Hi, Quintina. Thank you so much for coming," Tasha Pushkina gushes to the newest addition of our prep team the moment the door shuts behind her. "As you can see, these are my Tributes-"

This Quintina lets out a shrill squeal. "Oh. My. _Games!_" she shouts, jumping up and down on the spot, plump body jiggling. "_I can't believe I'm actually here!"_

"Neither can Victor Ivan Klerkov," my Mentor states drily, "if it serves as any consolation."

"Huh?" the chubby girl blinks. She can't be much older than me. "Whatever." Her hair is cropped like a boy's, dyed a bright, eye-watering shade of…blue? as are her nails, her necklace, her shoes and endless supply of tinkling bracelets. Her dress is simple, startling white. I have to blink. Cry-baby's wide eyes are dazed.

"Oh, what an interesting ensemble!" Tasha compliments her forcefully. "The asymmetric coloring is absolutely _fantastic_, don't you think, Klerkov?"

"Yes, yes," my Mentor agrees, greedy eyes never leaving Quintina's chest. "Though I am particularly captivated by the _breasts_," he whispers to me.

My elbow finds his ribs. A raw tingle shoots down my arm from the edge of his breastplate. _Pizda,_ I hiss as I shake my fingers out.

"I call it 'Irony in Ivory'," my new Stylist spins so to enhance the view. "Pretty cool, huh?"

"Quinta is a Stylist Apprentice for District 5," Tasha explains. "She's a friend of Octavia's, one of Cinna's classmates, and came highly recommended."

"Oh, you big liar!" Quintina pinches her. "I'm actually only a student. But I did get selected to work on the shoe design detail."

…the shoes that killed Holi. "So you're _not _an Apprentice?" I shouldn't push it, but I'm in no mood to be forgiving. _Xavier Malcovitch, now there are fucking two of you. _It's just Holi can talk. Will that make it harder, or easier, to give her mercy? Will it make any difference at all?

"Well, no," she says in a slightly smaller voice. "My sketches didn't actually get _used_, but people liked them!"She's not like me. Can't or won't stand and fight. She's everything I've ever hated, everything that's ever tormented me, and I could hurt her, hurt her with words if I wanted…but I wouldn't enjoy it, I realize. Couldn't savor it. It'd be as meaningless and cruel as slicing the throat of a struggling dairy calf unlucky enough to be born male.

I've done my fair share. My father's reputation, our livelihood, a village doesn't depend on it. For the first time it would be me, only me, wielding the knife and to no point or purpose. Everything in me screams to hurt her…

I don't. _I won't. _

"I'm sure they were _lovely,_ Quinta," Tasha Pushkina strains. "And it's certainly impressive to be selected for such an honor while still in school, don't youthink, Klerkov?"

"Hmm?" My Mentor grumps, still particularly captivated by the breasts. "Yes, yes, Natalayia. Impressive indeed."

"Now, let's get started. Do you have everything you need?"

"Yeah, the Peacekeepers got it all," 'Quinta' sniffs, then beams at us. "So who's first?"

Cry-baby is as silent—and invisible—as ever. Her painted eyes to turn me. _ Blyad._

"Tsk, tsk, Butcher, what are we going to do with you?" She teases, pudgy hands pouring down the front of my tattered costume and pinching my breasts."You poor thing! You can borrow some of mine if you need to," she winks. The front of her white dress has a diamond-shaped cut out from her collar bone to her navel, and her chubby, perky breasts swing precariously with every movement. Each must be the size of my _head._

_I could cut you if I wanted, _I seethe_. Slice them off like taking a fillet. You couldn't stop me. _

"Oh, naughty, naughty," she chides Klerkov as she adjusts my armor. "I caught you looking."

Unexpectedly he squeezes her and she bursts into peals of genuine laughter. "You dirty old man!" she swats him. "Want to feel the back as well?"

My Mentor whistles appreciatively.

"Well?" I hiss. "Are you happy now?"

"Alas, no." Klerkov feigns a frown. "Silicone!"

I stomp his toes. "I can't believe you just did that!"

"In front of _you,_ my Petra?" he asks, stroking his beard amusedly.

"In front of Malcovitch!" Who, incidentally, is cowering under Tasha Pushkina's new kimono and eying Quintina's breasts as though they might swing out and eat him.

She's quicker than Cinna at dressing me, but even pissed at the Raelius brothers I miss him. She constant chatter sets my jaw on edge, and it's only Tasha's stern eyebrows over her plastered smile that keep me from biting back.

* * *

><p>Seventeen.<p>

I've seen Seventeen Hunger Games. Too young to remember many. But I remember enough. Quintina babbles and I replace each Tribute's face with hers. Watch her die a hundred times. Like the idea of the Colosseum crushing those Capitol citizens, I find it strangely satisfying.

As she sprays my hair back in place my mind wanders to Marcus. Would he still be so kind if he knew?

…don't be a _durak_, Petra. He knew. I'm a monster willing to kill children, as terrible as the Victors and Capitol I despise. He was never being kind to me. He was being kind to Malcovitch. And Holi. And everyone else like them. It hurts. The Capitol, the Games can't make me a monster. I already am.

"What's that?" I ask, interrupting her rambling about feline feminine enhancements. Anything to think of something other than Malcovitch. Or Holi…or Marcus.

"Well it's blood, silly. See?" Quintina opens a clear glass jar, but the familiar tinge of salt doesn't greet my nose. I find myself suddenly homesick, and disappointed.

"That's not _blood._" I think back to this morning. A butcher would know.

"Not the _real _stuff," she rolls her lined eyes. "That'd be so totally _gross._ You can get, like, all sorts of nasty diseases and stuff. I had this friend, Iridina, and she was like, totally tapping this doctor-guy and that's like all he would ever talk about. I mean, he wouldn't even have _real_ sex with her, you know?"

Iridina. The name is familiar. With her coldness, I should have known. "What happened?" I ask,wary. "To your friend and the doctor?"

"She totally dumped his ass!" Quintina shrieks with laughter as she shucks the boots up my legs. "Now she's with this other guy who works for Sibyline Crane, you know, like the Gamemaster's brother? I mean, he's like married and all, but that's okay."

"So they're not together?" I pry, so low that Tasha can't hear me. "Your friend and the doctor?"

"_Tooootally_ no." She giggles. "He was like, rich and all, but he was such a loser. He like, never took her to parties or anything and wouldn't let her use anything recreational while they were together, you know? And he wouldn't even write for prescriptions! Like what's the point of screwing a doctor if you can't get free stuff? So I was like, you should lose him and get a makeover or something. And she did!" Quintina squeals, reapplying my make-up in bold, harsh strokes. "She's got this awesome scale job done now. I can't wait til I pass my boards, you know, to make some real money. Jewel-scale fingertips are all the rage."

…_not to mention nipples and pubic hair_, I snort to myself. "My bother had something I never did," I remember Marcus' lonely confession. "Friends."

Every year we gather for the Reaping. Every year we're forced to stay in the _Selo_, the main village, because our own homes don't have Vids. Sometimes it's days. Sometimes it's weeks. You pack enough food and hope to Games you don't run out before the Tributes do. But every year, after every Games, there's a fair. When I was a child I thought it was to help us to celebrate…or forget. I was wrong—it's because we're all in one place. Makes it easier for the vendors to sell their smuggled goods or their Capitol delicacies, tempt parents relieved to have their own children to buy the newest, shiniest baubles advertised on the Vids they've now all watched.

One year—one glorious year—Dmitri Berezoski, the Mayor's eldest son got a Capitol motorbike, and rode around _Selo_ for days with different girls clinging to his back. Then on the last day, he asked _me_. He even bought me a ribbon for my hair and stole a flower for me to wear. We rode past the shops and Vid screens, past all the vendors and the girls who'd tormented me for years. He even—very briefly—pulled into the Victor's Village to turn up ruts in the Maneater's garden. When he brought me back to the square I felt I was the prettiest, happiest girl in the District…

Then our fathers arrived. I thought we were in trouble for trespassing into the Victor's Village. I remember being terrified the Peacekeepers would take me away…the Mayor was rich enough to bribe them. Had done it frequently in the past. We weren't starving, but my own father couldn't afford to save me.

"You must never see this boy again," he scolded me. "Not ever again, my Petra."

"We won't get into trouble," I promised him, holding the ribbon in my hair. "Dmitri wouldn't let them take me away. Besides, the Maneater can't be as terrifying as you say he is. If he was, our Tributes would _win_."

"Don't be vapid, girl." The Mayor snapped. "Your father's right. The boys in this village have gotten together and created a Victor's pot, with the prize going to the first to win the Hunger Games going on between your legs."

I was fourteen. Even then I knew from the look on Dmitri's face it was truth. My father's arms had never held me tighter.

"Ordinarily I wouldn't care. Let the young men be men, _da_? But the betting has grown so large and your cunt so frigid it is only a matter of time before someone gets smart enough—or drunk enough—to rape you. I don't want my son caught in the crossfire…and Games forbid my bastard grandchildren be that ugly." The Mayor spat. "Go back to your village, Petra Angelovna. There is no place for you here."

"I'll still tell everyone I fucked you," was my first love's leering farewell.

I forgot my place. Told him no one would believe him. Broke loose from my father and kicked him so hard in the testicles he retched. Then I kicked. And I kicked. And I _kicked. _

Let the young men be men, da? I still remember my father stating, laying his hands on my shoulders. The Mayor never said another word.

"You are young, and unloved. And now you are far from home," even Klerkov had the heart to warn me. I'm guessing no one ever said the same to him. Iridina was an Escort, bold, confident, beautiful and hunting for a man to whore out to. I don't have the heart to judge him. Marcus Raelius never stood a chance.

* * *

><p>"Quintina, what's in that stuff?" I ask as the blood spatters dry against my skin.<p>

"Why?" She frowns.

"Because Malcovitch is _eating_ it."

"Shit!" Tasha pulls his fist out of his small mouth, wiping the corners as he protests shrilly. "Quinta, mind your products!" She reprimands sternly.

"It won't hurt him," Quintina pouts. "It's just crappy corn syrup from District 9 and a little coloring. Here, sweetie," she holds out a candy, pinching his cheeks and cooing. "You're so cute I could just eat you up!"

His eyes light up, greedy fingers tugging her dress for more. Quintina laughs.

"What's in that?" I ask, suspicious. I haven't seen Cry-baby so excited since he guzzled that pitcher of cream.

"That's dried chocolate-wine," she shrugs. "Keeps the kids happy. I like use it all the time when I babysit my nieces."

"What?" She asks, indignant at my disgust. "A girl's got to study! I can't help my sister keeps popping out the little brats. I keep telling them I'm _in school_, you know, and they should like hire a babysitter. I mean, a basic-level Avox doesn't cost all that much, and it's not like they _eat_ much, either," she pouts. "Everyone has one but us!"Quintina is a self-entitled _suka_, but she's not entirely useless. She left Malcovitch in hospital clothes to gain some sympathy. She even had the thought to dip both my nails and hands into that congealing syrup, and have me drink some to dribble it down my lips. It's too bright to be dried blood, but the effect is still shocking.

And for the finale, she removes Cry-baby's collar and slides it around my neck."There!" She proclaims proudly. " 'The Taming of the Beast!'"

"This is good," Klerkov rushes, curling his beard. "Yes. I like this. Yes."

"Quinta, thank you." Tasha says sincerely, giving the chubby girl an intimate hug. "I don't know how I'll ever repay you." Then my Escort's fingers slide through her short-cropped blue hair and Tasha kisses her full on her plump, heart-shaped mouth.

I gape. Malcovitch blinks. Klerkov scratches his chin, intrigued.

'Quinta' giggles, a girlish blush going across her cheeks. "Oh, I'm sure you'll think of something later," she winks and pinches Tasha's ass playfully before sashaying away, giving her not one but _two_ backwards glances as she goes.

The door shuts behind her. Our stunned silence explodes.

"FUCK!" I shout, sending Malcovitch scampering. "_What the fuck was that-!"_

"Petra-" Tasha begins.

"What was that!" I demand. "What the fuck was _that_!"

She puts a hand on my arm. "Let me explain-"

"Don't touch me!"

"Petra, I'm an Escort who dresses modestly," she states. "And I work for District 6. If I never did anything scandalous I would've been replaced ages ago."

"But you just _kissed_-" I sputter.

"Yes. I did. And a little public kissing and groping can go a long way in creating an image," she explains. "In order to get Sponsors you need to grab as much media attention as you can, even if only the tabloids. You wear your costume, let me wear mine."

"Which is _what_, exactly?" I demand.

"…it's obvious, isn't it?" Tasha says evenly, her painted eyes never blinking. "I'm playing the part of a bisexual to earn some extra popularity since that's what the public seems to want."

"Are you going to-" _fuck her later_, I nearly ask, but can't begin to imagine how that would even work.

"If I have to," she continues, reading my thoughts. "People are going to question your motives for crashing that Chariot. There's only so long it can be played on the Vids before someone starts to doubt it wasn't just a publicity stunt. Tiberia won't distract them for long, so right now you need a scandal on your prep team and you need it _badly_," she places a hand on my arm. I don't jerk away. "I'm an Escort. Quintina's still in school and she'll run straight away to sell her story to the highest bidder. You said you wanted my help, Petra Angelovna, _the best damn chance there is_. Here it is."

I remember her words on the train. _I realized then what lay in store for me. Here in the Capitol, beautiful women are forced to be _seen_. An Escort, a Consort, a Mistress, a Dancer…or even a Vid performer. _

…_So you chose the Games. _I can't look her in the eye. It might be part of a long-term career scheme, but right now, she's doing this for _me_.

"Personally, moya Pet'renka, Victor Ivan Klerkov does not see what all this fuss is for. He rather likes this new development," my Mentor strokes his beard excitedly.

I want to blame him, him and his mad Resistance schemes…want to blame Cinna Raelius for his stupid stunt…but as I see that awful reflection again I know it's me. Me. I am the only one to blame, and now the only woman in the world who was ever kind to me is whoring herself out to save me.

I can't even bear to look at her.

"One more word, Klerkov, and I will slap you." Tasha threatens emotionlessly.

Far from cowed, he claps his bearish hands in excitement. "Ah! Invite your friend back, Natalaylia. You can _both _slap me."

She raises one ferocious eyebrow. Klerkov clears his throat, instantly meek. "Then again, Natalaylia, perhaps one would suffice."


	35. The Victor

****The Victor****

****Some bonus canon cameos for you all-I hope they're all within character!****

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><p>The Crowd's roar is present, even here. The Tank crawls through the Capitol like a crone with swollen joints, and everywhere the din of their applause follows us. Unloading at the hotel is worse than leaving the hospital. No less than two-hundred Peace-keepers and a squadron of Game Enforcers line the red carpeting. Confetti rains down so hard and fast for a moment I feel trapped in a sweltering blizzard.<p>

"Remember-"

"Put on a show," I growl to Klerkov. "I know."

Malcovitch goes first, clutched in Tasha's arms. Women fawn and young girls scream. There's even some men in the mix now, I note queasily. She bobs and bows, curtseying coyly as Cry-baby does what he does best: be invisible. He's so small, so huddled he's almost lost in the folds of her gown. He's absolutely helpless, but the Capitol loves him for it.

"Are you ready, moya Pet'renka?" My Mentor asks.

_But she would know, and in knowing, would be false. _If I fake this, or try to act, I am lost. I think of my Reaping. Malcovna. Klerkov's solicitation, that syringe of Morphling, those girls clutching at my hair. I think of Tasha's kiss, of Klerkov's whores, of a bath of blood and a Colosseum collapsing, of a Medic and his brother…

The rage eats me. My blood is burning. It's only the metal collar and chain that allows Victor Victor Ivan Klerkov to drag his champion away from the pressing throng, up the stairs and inside.

* * *

><p>"The Butcher again provides the crowd with grotesque demonstrations of violence-"<p>

"-and up and coming contender against this year's Career Districts-"

"-not much to look at, but definitely the Tribute to keep your eye on-"

"-with an astounding display of feminine finesse and contempt, Tiberia makes a shocking return to the Hunger Games scene with this year's 'Life and Death', a two-part costume series featuring District 6 Tribues Petra aka 'the Butcher' Angelov and Xavier Malcovitch-"

"-clearly the crowd favorite-"

"-awaiting tomorrow's Training Scores with anticipation to see if Anglov can live up to her name, 'the Butcher'."

"There's nothing about the blast," I whisper over the shouting of Vid reporters.

"No, no!" Klerkov continues to smile jovially, waving to the media. "Of course not, my Petra." He returns through his teeth. "The rest of Panem will never know."

"So they're focusing on me instead," I observe. He nods curtly in reply. Victor Ivan Klerkov is ten times more dangerous than I thought. He knew. All along he knew about the bomb, arranged for me to take the press…

_He's using you_, I think. _You can't trust him. Not entirely._

But I'm wrong. I _can_ trust Klerkov…to be Klerkov. I don't know how, I don't know why, but I know as long as our two goals intersect, Victor Ivan Klerkov will deliver what he says…regardless of cost. He wanted a champion, I wanted to live. I don't know how long or how far he can take me, but if I play his game, I can't lose. "How the hell did you arrange for that?"

"Plots," Klerkov shakes a seedy man's hand, laughing bawdily at his jests. "Spies." His enormous arms encircle me for a photograph. "Accidents." Even the lobby of our hotel is crowded, their din mixing with that of the Vids. No media here, Klerkov explains in my ear as he holds me firmly by that chain, but many Sponsors. And Victors. And Tributes.

I glare at all.

I see several faces I recognize. Luccan Sheen of District 1 eyes me, and smiles when I look his way. Asha and Ashira—now in _clothes_, I note—pretend indifference. And the pinched-face girl with sly, piggish eyes from District 3. Portia? A naked woman with a scaly hood attracts glances from male Sponsors, Victors—especially Klerkov—and Tributes alike. Iridina. But her wares are in vain. She might get money herself for fucking them, but no eyes wander from her body to her male Tribute, Mycah, from District 5. To my surprise, he smiles and waves. I have to look away. Some of the others are faces I've seen before in Vids, politicians of sorts. Senecca Crane with his face swollen, bruised, and stitched. More Hunger Games Enforcers. From the ageless faces and ridiculous dress of the rest I assume they're rich. Obscenely rich. Potential Sponsors, then. I stand straight, like Klerkov taught me, like Tiberia's costuming makes me, and meet their eyes.

By time we clear the lobby my feet are burning even over the Morphling Marcus rubbed on them. My face aches from constant snarling, and even with the leather underside this collar has chafed my neck.

"_Blyad._" I tell Klerkov. "Just take me to the Games already. These Crowds are killing me."

"We are not safe yet," my Mentor hisses. "Hallways have eyes. Ears." Avox. Spies. If Klerkov has them, there are other Mentors who must have bought some off as well. No sooner is his warning given then a door bursts open to our left.

Klerkov shoulders in front of me, armor clanking, He dips his nails into a hidden pocket, and their sheen is even brighter than before. _Poison,_ I realize suddenly. _He paints his nails with poison._

"Victor, would you really?" The man slurs, smelling of stale vodka and urine. "After all we've been through together?" He seems familiar…

"Ah, Haymitch," Klerkov grunts, clapping his hands excitedly. "Sadly yes. I have a Tribute worth training, at least. That merits some degree of protection." Haymitch, my Mentor called him. Haymitch Abernathy. I know the face now. A _Victor._

_Plots. Spies. Accidents_. I step closer to Klerkov's protection.

"So you finally did it, did you?" The tottering man slurs, leering at me. One hand clutches a bottle of cheap-smelling alcohol. "You found her?"

"Yes," Klerkov boasts proudly. "I have found my champion."

"You're…sober!"The man hiccoughs, raising a dirty hand to jab him. "Mistake. Big…mistake…it'll be the same. It's always the same. Look at her. Look at her!" His unwashed fingers yank Klerkov's beard. "Some rags and metal don't make a girl a fighter! Your champion will die just like the rest of them-"

Klerkov is silent.

"Look at the bear!" Haymitch howls drunkenly, swaying on the spot, his unkempt blonde hair flying. "The dancing bear with his cubs-! The helpless newborn. The nubile she-bear. She'll run, you know she'll run! She'll run, same as the others, at the first sight of blood!"

"First blood. How odd you should speak of it," Klerkov intones coldly."As it is likely to be _your _Tributes."

I wasn't ready. He might be drunk, but he's fucking _strong_. Shorter than Klerkov, perhaps, but just as muscled under that belly. He charges like a bull, head down, and takes Klerkov by the waist. The force slams us back, but Klerkov stays on his feet. He's armored, and the clash of glass can do nothing to hurt him. They grapple, wrestle, rip hair and clothing—

Do I run? Stay? Is Haymitch going to sell his story just like Quinta?

…_Is Klerkov testing me? _

I join in. Wrench the bastard's arm like I'd wrestle a bull by the horns. When he turns to face me I punch him. Hard. Blood gushes from his nose. Teeth crunch and flesh tears. Whatever else he was, Cinna Raelius was right about these nails.

Haymitch stumbles back. Sits shakily. "Bitch," I hear him mutter.

"You're wrong, _mudak_," I tell him. "This She-bear will fight. She's got claws and she knows how to use them. Now piss off. No one hits Klerkov." But Haymitch only laughs. Then cries. Then screams.

I gawk. Klerkov drags me away.

"What's wrong with him?" I burst in the elevator. "With Haymitch? Why'd he attack us? Why _didn't_ you hurt him? _What the hell just happened_!"

My Mentor sleeks his mussed beard. "He is _mad_, my Petra. Mad."

"The Games?" I ask.

"That, yes. And the drinking. His District is poor. His Tributes poorer. He drinks to forget." I'm from 6. Even our children share the ales and wines, although good vodka is for the rich and the men. But there are drunks. Many drunks. The kind who piss in public, steal food when sober enough to walk, who lay down in the streets at night to sleep or die. My father felt sorry for them. My mother never did.

The Games. The Drinking. Very soon, Haymitch could be _me. _I pity Malcovitch. Pity lambs led to slaughter. Pity Holi, and the other children dying. Rocks can't feel. Rocks can't die. I have no room for Haymitch Abernathy. But from the look in his eyes, I know that Victor Victor Ivan Klerkov was speaking of himself. I find I have no pity for him, either.

I'm silent.

"You should not have done that," he continues, frowning. "Now he will warn his Tributes against you. Other Districts as well. And I was not aware you had grown so fond of me, my Petra."

"I haven't," I state, less than half a lie. "But you're my Mentor. So if anyone gets to hit you when you're being a _mudak_, it's me." I think back to last night's broadcast. "Which District?"

"12."

Two children. Only Cry-baby is less a threat. The worst his warnings could do is make them _run._ "I'm not worried about them."

"You live, and kill," my Mentor advises. "Leave worry to me. But I do wish you had paid more attention to our conversation, my Petra." Plots. Spies. Accidents. If Haymitch Abernathy has to drink that much to forget the children he lets die year after year, he wouldn't risk killing them by killing me, I decide. He isn't dangerous like Klerkov. He isn't searching for a champion. He _cares_.

I smile. Press Klerkov's poisoned hand. "He wouldn't dare."

* * *

><p>The elevator doors open. I am relieved. A warm bed, a hot—hot!—bath, a cup of spiced wine or vodka to help me sleep…then training in the morning to prepare me to slaughter children. But I must sleep. I must. Two nights of rest before the Arena…I need all the strength and sleep I can get.<p>

We're doors away. My aching muscles throb in protest. Almost there-

Another door slams. Klerkov spins me behind him wordlessly. "Well, well, well," a girl's low voice and muscular body emerge from the shadows. "Look what the _Cat_ dragged in."

Cat. Only one person that could mean: Tiberia. I don't like how she emphasized that. From Klerkov's tenseness he doesn't either.

Wide-set eyes, short, dark hair. Like Haymitch, I recognize her face from previous Games: Johanna Mason. A great strategy, that one. She purposefully failed her Chariot Outfit, her Training Score, and her Interview to be misjudged in the Arena as a clumsy, whiny weakling not worth targeting. It wasn't until the last days, when the Alliance had turned on itself and the few remaining Careers were hunting the others down that she began her retaliation. Johanna Mason, the girl who couldn't even start a fire with matches, proved to be lethal with an axe.

I'm big, brutish. The Butcher's daughter. I never had that chance.

"Busy, busy," Klerkov brushes her aside. "Cannot talk now. No."

"I'm wearing _clothes_, Klerkov. Do I look like I'm here to talk to you?" Mason sneers. "Though come to think on it, they never do much talking, do they?"

There's a sudden chill. _Avox_, I realize. She means the Avox. _She knows-! "_Hello, Sweetheart," she continues, sauntering past Klerkov lazily. "I bet you think you're clever, don't you, Klerkov?" She asks in disgust before turning back to me. "Bet you think your Mentor just did you a favor, don't you? You're _wrong._ Hours ago you were the ugly Butcher. Now you've gone and gotten yourself noticed…"

Her hands find my hips and give the slightest shove-

Damn these shoes. I feel myself falling backwards, rocking onto those tiny heels and I reach out instinctively for something-anything!-to hang onto, Holi's voice ringing desperately in my ears. Next thing I know I'm grasping Johanna Mason by the shoulders, leaning back as though swooned in her arms, and know the panicked feeling Quintina must have had just seconds before Tasha Pushkina's lips met hers. Mason's face twists into a cruel smile. "And you can be a _sexy_ little thing, can't you?"

Haymitch I was prepared for. The walks I managed well. For Johanna Mason, I have no instincts. No training. No chances of survival.

"Here's my advice," she rights me and shoves me into Klerkov. "Don't live to regret it."

My face is flushed, heart heaving. "I-I don't understand."

"He hasn't told you?" She asks in surprise, rounding on my Mentor. "You haven't told her!"

But Victor Ivan Klerkov is as stubborn—and stoic—as ever. "A Mentor prepares his Tributes for the Games."

Mason swears and puts a fist through the plaster of the wall. "Goddamn you, Klerkov!" She shouts. "Goddamn you all!" But her sudden coolness is even more ominous than that outburst. "I'm appealing again for equal Gender-distribution of excess Victors."

Klerkov sniffs. "Absurd."

"What's absurd is you and Blight sending girls into the ring without preparing them for what comes next!"

What comes next, my blood runs cold. What could make Mason—a Victor, and a good one at that—sound so shrill? "What comes next, Klerkov?" I nearly beg. "What did she mean? Don't live, live to regret it-?"

But my Mentor is silent. Perhaps ashamed.

"The moment you walk out of that Arena your body becomes Capitol property," She spits. "So now that you've gone and gotten yourself noticed, I'd suggest you _don't_. The Arena isn't the only place in Panem where the monsters run wild." She tosses her dark hair over her shoulder, then retreats.

Capitol Property. I'm from 6. I'm old enough now. I recognize the word whore when I hear it. I don't believe her. Can't believe her. I am Petra Angelovna, and I want to _live_. "Klerkov, what, what does she mean-?"

"Well," my bear whispers, eyes shutting in defeat. "She meant well."

"No, no about b-becoming Capitol property…Tasha…Tasha said in the Capitol, beautiful women must be seen…" My voice is desperate, pleading.

"Nocturnal arrangements," he states. "Erotic entanglements. Call it what you will it serves as a campaign fundraiser for Capitol politics."

"Erotic-?" But I'm old enough now. Grew up in 6. I know the word whore when I hear it. "Oh, God, Klerkov, I, I c-can't I'm a…I've never, I-"

"Shh, shh, no," he holds me. "Not now. Not yet. Only after. Only after-"

I shove him back. "Why didn't you tell me!"

His next words are plaintive, pleading. "_Moya Pet'renka_, I wanted you to live."

"But what sort of life!" I shout. "What life is that!"

"You must understand this," He commands me gently. "Petra Angelovna died the moment her name was pulled from the lists. Do you understand? _Already dead_. Your life is gone, Petra Angelovna. You can never have it back, and Victor Ivan Klerkov cannot save you. All he can offer you is a second life. Another life."

I snort. Sob. Sneer. "What would you know, huh?" I shove him. Hard. "What would you care?" I pound my fists against his chest, every word a blow. "You and your goddamn seven fucking whores and and seven Klerkov seven you, you-"

He grips my wrists firmly in his fists as I curse him and kick. "It is not how you think, my Petra-"

"Yes it is!" I sob. "Yes it is don't you see? That's me that'll be me some drunk bastard will be fucking and I don't want it! I don't want it! It's not worth it _it's not worth it for a life like that-!"_

"But it is a life, my Petra, oh, my Petra," he whispers sadly. "A life better than what 23 other children will have."

There's a vid screen on the wall, and I see—Panem sees—a face, a face I recognize from the mirror, a determined, blood-splattered face, a face that all of Panem knows will win the Hunger Games. A face that will never back down or away, will never surrender, a face that laughs as horses and bone, wood and stone are smashed against the side of the Colosseum…

…and it's my face. Mine.

Marcus Raelius wound't remind me, but I remember. I am Petra Angelovna, the Stone-heart, the Butcher, the Victor of the 73rd Hunger Games, but for now I'm sobbing into Victor Ivan Klerkov's bearish arms, crying over a virginity I've never lost and a life I'll never get to lead.


	36. The Unspoken

**The Unspoken**

**AN: Sorry for all the political intrigue and Petra's perceived mood swings...it's what happens when the author is fed a consistent literary diet of George R. R. Martin and Stieg Larsson. As smart and strong as she is, I still try to portray her realistically as a child grown up in a very rural, very bleak, very misogynistic society stripped of her home and dignity and thrown into the nightmare of the Capitol and the Games. **

**As far as rating goes, I apologize for not increasing it to M sooner due to the high volume of violence, cursing, and sexual content. I admire fanfiction. net both for its lack of censorship but also precautions in protecting the rights of fanfic authors and readers alike. I sincerely hope no younger readers have been or will be unwittingly exposed to mature content through my writing. **

* * *

><p>"I had the right to know," I tell them.<p>

"Would it have changed anything?" My Mentor asks. "Or would you still have chosen to become my champion?" I am Petra Angelovna, Tribute, Reaped, contender in the 73rd Hunger Games. Is Klerkov right? Would simply knowing have truly changed anything?

I don't have the answer. "I had the right to know," I insist instead. "I had the right to know. From you. And you_,_" I turn to Tasha. "Especially you_._"

"Being honest isn't the same as being kind," the wigged woman responds demurely. "You knew I didn't want you to wear that outfit."

"But you didn't stop me. You sent me out there like a _kot_ and you said nothing," I tell her. "Fuck you both. _Otva'li_."

"Are you firing us?" She asks me quietly.

To that question, and all the others, I find I have no answer. I shut the door. Snick the lock into place. Sit slowly, armor and spiked hair scratching the oiled wooden frame. Are you firing us? Tasha Pushkina asked me. _Petra Angelovna died the moment her name was pulled from the lists, _Klekov said. _Do you understand? Already dead. _

Do I even want to live anymore, now that I know the true cost? Should I have killed myself first chance I had after the Reaping? Would it have been better to take my chances with the Resistance instead?

…the honest answer? I don't know.

* * *

><p>I hear them outside my door for some time, whispering back and forth, for once not arguing. She calls for me, several times, but eventually their voices fade and soft footsteps disappear down the hall. It's all wrong, all of it. The carpet too soft, the walls too bright, the electric lighting eerie and humming. And everywhere is saturated with that horrible Capitol stink, like lye and bleach, like a medic's hut smothered under a sweet, crisp scent of day-old flowers. I miss the smell of earth and straw, of rot and blood, the stench of human and animal shit and piss and sweat, miss the moldy, greasy feel of wool and fur, the crackle of fire and the choking of smoke. I miss my father, even my mother, miss Irena and Marta and Lidya and Zoya who I haven't seen for twelve years, miss the bleating of goats and the cold of winter, even miss the cruelty of old women and young girls alike, even Dmitri Berezoski and his constant taunting…<p>

I miss Home. Miss 6. I'm not the Butcher, not the Stone-heart, not some brave woman or Klerkov's champion. I'm just Petra, Petra Angelovna, the-girl-who-was-reaped and the-girl-who-will-be-raped. I bury my hands in my hair, pull that bear-skin cloak around me to hide but even it is permeated with that sterile reek.

I cry. I cry until my eyes are dry and bloody and my throat is raw. Then I curse. And curse, and curse.

* * *

><p>I know he's out there. Somehow even before the soft tapping of child's hands on the door I know he's there. "Go away, Malcovitch," I say over my shoulder. "Just leave me alone."<p>

But I see, rather than hear, the padding of his small feet before my door, casting long shadows across the room. I could pretend to ignore him, but he'd only stay, too stupid or scared to leave.

"Did Tasha and Klekov send you?" I sneer. "Did they think you'd make me feel better?" Cry-baby is as silent as ever. "Well they're _wrong,_" I continue. "You're a pain and a burden and a pest and I hate you. Go away."

More silence. Even through the door, I can feel his eyes on me. "Hell," I finally spit. Then I let him in.

* * *

><p>There's only truly nice thing about the Capitol. All the food, all the glamour, all the attention is only because we're Tributes. They made us celebrities where we should have been slaves. But even so, even the Avox are afforded their electricity. It's a constant presence, controlling the lighting, the temperature, even the water. Imagine never freezing in winter, never stifling in summer. Imagine hot water, as much as you like, without having to cut and carry wood or trudge through mud to find the hot springs.<p>

I shower. Take as much hot water as I like, let the tiled, mirrored, blinding bathroom fill up with steam like a sauna. Even with Malcovitch the stall is still enveloping. _Three adults could fit here comfortably,_ I think, then my nose wrinkles. _Perhaps they do. _With their electricity and their Vids and their adverts and their surgeries, with all their riches and their excesses it's easy to see why in the Districts we think _they're_ the civilized ones. But now that I'm here, now that I've seen it, I know it all comes at a cost.

…Us. Tributes and Games to keep us in fear. Fear so they can have so many and so much, and keep us content and complacent so little and so few. "It's not fair, Malcovitch," I tell him again. "It's just not." Not fair they have all these comforts when my sisters died on pallets of straw in a wooden hovel. All this food while Malcovitch and many, many more are starving. Not fair to give us all a taste of Capitol life, then tell us to kill children if we want to keep it. I understand now why Victor Ivan Klerkov—for all my childhood the mysterious Man-eater—never left the Victor's Village.

Out of guilt. Out of greed.


	37. The Nightmare

**The Nightmare**

* * *

><p>Can't sleep.<p>

It's too bright. Too hot. Too _quiet_. Even with the lights off and the temperature down with the sliding adjuster I learned to use on the train it's too unfamiliar to sleep. And Malcovitch's muffled breathing isn't the same as my father's snores. No bleating of goats pierces the night. No pungent, soothing smells of still smoking wood and occasional _pop!_ from the smoldering fire. It's simply _silent_.

I toss. Turn. Sweat. I know I need rest, my body aches and my eyes lag so heavy but it just won't come. Cry-baby nestles deeper against me, my side hot and sticky and his curls slick with sweat. Each time I try to push him away he only snuggles closer under the covers. But I don't have time, don't have energy to waste on coddling him. It wasn't part of our agreement, mine and Malcovna's. I only said I'd kill him. I never said I'd be kind. I'll have training tomorrow. Then my Training Score, then my Interview with Caesar Flickerman. All my Sponsors, all my help, all my chances depend on my performance…but I still don't have the heart to send him away. He's only a kid. He doesn't understand. I never said I'd be kind but I promised his mother—promised him—I wouldn't let him suffer.

He nuzzles me contentedly, breath hot against my skin. I've never longed for sleep so badly.

In the end I have to pull the cord. Summon some poor Avox whose only job is to wait on the Tributes' every needs. It only takes seconds for one to appear, so suddenly, so silently, I can't help but wonder if she's related to Malcovitch.

"I need wine," I tell her. Then, "Please?"

She returns with a bottle and a delicate glass cup. I wave her away and take the bottle. It's heady, bitter and strong. _Blyad_. I wipe my mouth, surprised to find her still there. "Oh," I say, embarrassed to hand her the now empty case. She only smiles, and with a shock I recognize her.

The dusky woman. From this morning. Klerkov's whore.

_Plots. Spies. Accidents,_ my Mentor's words ring in my ears. He plots with the Resistance—or at the very least knows of their schemes—and paints his own nails with poison. Of course he wouldn't trust the wait-staff to chance. She smiles knowingly, touches her lips, then leaves as silently as she came. I feel my face flush, my fingers grow warm and tingly. I lay back down and pull Malcovitch closer, brush back his curls and wait for the wine to work…

A man with green eyes smiles at me and I'm naked in the hospital or is the fountain but I'm not afraid when he leans in to kiss me but suddenly it's a girl, a girl with dark, wide-set eyes and a cruel smile leering over me and I fightclawscratch to get away and suddenly Cinna is bleeding and horses are screaming and the Crowd is chasing us pulling Lilly apart as she bleats and keens and the Peacekeepers turn to men in orange suits with needles and people are coughing my sisters are coughing they're coughing up blood and lungs and bone but when I wake up Marcus is there and says a bad dream then Dmitri and he laughs and the snake-woman laughs and the drunk men all laugh and the girls and their grandmothers they turn into wolves the walls to winter the White Winter and I run through the snow my doll clutched in my hand breath coming faster and faster wolves with faces laughing and chasing and howling—

I wake suddenly, drenched in sweat, clutching Malcovitch to my chest.

_It was a dream_, durak, I tell myself. _You drank too much too fast. It's only a stupid dream-_

But a squadron of Peacekeepers stands surrounding us, nearly invisible in the darkness. In my arms, Cry-baby tenses.

* * *

><p>Malcovitch.<p>

He's Silent. Frozen. Invisible. I feel naked. Alone. Vulnerable. I count at least six rifles, the glean of their barrels unmistakable and deadly. "I'm a Tribute," I tell the darkness, braver than I feel. "What do you want?"

I'm met with silence.

"What do you want?" I ask again. Their leader jerks the rifle towards the door. They want me to leave, I realize. Plots. Spies. Accidents. It will be much easier to kill us outside the hotel. Make it look like an accident…but I am Petra Angelovna. I want to live.

I consider staying. Briefly. But those guns are tipped with bayonets. They wouldn't even have to shoot me. Stabbed now, or shot later. I know which one is quickest. I also know which one gives Klerkov or Tasha or the Resistance or whoever might save me time to save me.

…if they even care anymore. If they're even still alive.

"Tribute, come." That rifle orders. Tribute. Not Tributes. Malcovitch is as still as a fawn in a thicket, small as a huddled kit. Under the Capitol's lush bedding he's completely hidden. I keep it that way. Pry myself up slowly. Deliberately. I don't know why I bother protecting him, in two days time he'll be in the Hunger Games, with or without me. But maybe, maybe if they're onto Klerkov, this might be the last place in Panem they'd think to look…

But Cry-baby isn't smart enough. He'd never make it out of the Capitol alive.

Orders are barked. They cuff my hands. My last glimpse of Malcovitch is nothing more than a pile of flung covers across a bed. _I'm sorry, Cry-baby. I should've let them kill us both._

* * *

><p>They march me forcibly down the hall. I don't know why. Don't know who's watching. Don't know if this is just another of Klerkov's thrice-damned tests. <em>Only after<em>, I repeat his words. _Only after_. I keep my head up, eyes forward. It's just like getting Reaped, like getting Reaped all over again. We reach the elevator, and the doors pull open to reveal a serving Avox—the dusky woman. She bows demurely to the soldiers and steps obediently aside. I try to find her eyes, her face, any sort of sign that she's seen me, knows me, will help me…

But I try in vain. The doors clang shut.

"Where are you taking me?" I ask them. Silence. I study their reflections in the mirrored panels. They're not Capitol Peacekeepers, the insignia is wrong. Not Game Enforcers, either. I'm a Tribute. From District 6. I have no idea who these masked men are, or who they're working for. But it doesn't take a genius to guess why they're here: _People are going to question your motives for crashing that Chariot._

"Who sent you?" I demand. "What do you want?"

"The Tribute will be silent." Their leader orders.

"The Tribute has a name," I tell him. "And it's Petra Angelovna. Where are you taking me?"

"The Tribute will be silent." I get a rough prod in the back from a bayonet.

"Where are you taking me?"

"The Tribute will be silent."

"Is that all you can say?"

"The Tribute will be silent." Fuck. Maybe it's all they can say. Or maybe he's been answering my question all along. Libertas chose me. Then the Capitol sent the Raelius brothers to spy on me…They think I'm one of them. They'll take my tongue.

My mouth goes dry. I feel my face pale, feel the cart slow and my knees wobble. _Tell them, durak. Tell them about Klerkov. Say you didn't know and they'll let you go-_

Pizda. If they arrest Klerkov, I'll have no Sponsors. If wearing Snow's old uniform can guarantee Luccan Sheen the party's loyalty, the Tribute of a known traitor doesn't have a chance. Victor Ivan Klerkov has used me like a child's plaything since the moment my name was pulled. He's lied to me, let hundreds die, will whore me out should I survive the Arena…but if I betray him I am lost.

My life or my tongue. Fuck. Oh, fuck.

* * *

><p><em>Help me. Please.<em>

But the hotel clerk ignores me yet again. Thinks nothing of armed men shoving a half-dressed girl across the lobby. Help me. Tell Klerkov. Tell the Resistance. Tell Tasha. Tell someone—

Iridina. She's flirting quite successfully with a face I recognize as a Senator, one jeweled hand buried in his pants. She's only an Escort, a glorified whore for another District, who can't or won't even protect her own charges. She wouldn't protect Holi. She won't protect me. But I'm desperate now. _Help me, help me please..._

She sees me. And sneers.

* * *

><p>They don't take me out the front. They don't dare. The Crowd is still gathered thick, and piles of roses, chocolates, and women's undergarments line the glass doors and steps. Instead they take me out the back, a small service entrance, too nice to be designated as Avox Only. It's a whore's entrance, I realize after passing a second Senator in the small hallway. For clients who demand discretion.<p>

_Only after_, Klerkov's words are little comfort. _Only after._

Outside, the Capitol's muggy heat is unbearable. Two more of these mysterious Peacekeepers wait for us, their uniforms Capitol black, but the embroidered insignia all wrong. It's long and elaborate, almost birdlike. It looks like a—

…_Crane. _"Well, well, well," Senecca Crane leers. "If it isn't the Butcher."

The Gamemaster. "You," I state, dumbfounded. "What do you want?"

"Come, my dear," He gestures to the puffy scar forming on his face. "Now is not the time for Games. Now is the time for recompense."

"Your _face_?" I gape, disbelieving. "Is that what this is about?"

"My face, as you so indelicately put it, is worth more than your entire shit-ridden District combined," he snaps, brandishing a familiar whip. "You impudent girl, did you really think you could make Senecca Crane look like a fool and get away unscathed?"It's a _private _Peacekeeper force. The Gamemaster wants revenge. It's so childish, so ludicrous, so not the fate I was fearing that relief floods my veins. I can't help it. I laugh.

Crane flushes. Roars. "Hold her!" His peacekeepers force me to my knees. "You think because you're a Tribute you're untouchable?" He snarls. "You're an arrogant bitch, I'll give you that. But you're not a Victor yet. And you won't be," he lifts my chin with the bone handle. "That I promise you."

But I'm a Tribute. A Tribute from 6. The Butcher's daughter. I've known cold. Known hunger. Known sickness, seen starvation. Been whipped and beaten as punishment since I could walk. By my own father. This man, this simpering little man with his soft hands, Capitol mustachios and flamboyant clothing can't scare me. "What if you're wrong, Crane?" I ask him. "What do you think will happen when I win?"

"I'm the Gamemaster!" Crane shouts. "I decide who lives and dies!"

"You're a short, shouting man wearing a cape," I bait him calmly. "Killing twenty-three other children might be a challenge. Some of them are Careers. But not you. You'd be a pleasure."

"You dare to threaten _me_?" He bellows.

"I'm wearing cuffs. You're the one who brought armed guards and a weapon. If you're feeling threatened it's because now you and everyone else here knows how much a coward you really are."

"_COWARD-?" _ he sputters, puffing like a frog. "You dare call me a-"

"Beat me or let me go, Crane, but don't bore me," I cut across him harshly. "I've got Training Scores and an Interview tomor-"

The first lash catches the side of my face. I'm blinded. Taste blood. He hits me over and over and over again, stripes my jaw, my cheek, my breasts. It stings. Welts. Rips clothing and hair. My hands are bound, can't raise them to cover my face. My own father only stuck my back. This hurts like hell but I bite my lip not to cry out. I won't look weak. I _can't._ These soldiers know people. Rich people. Sponsors. Another one of Klerkov's stupid tests. _Next time I see him, I'll kill him_, I seethe. But after my breakdown with Mason, I can't blame him. He wants to know if his champion can withstand a beating.

She can. She will.

It stings, but doesn't tear flesh. Senecca Crane might lay a hundred furious lashes but he doesn't know how to use a whip. Not a single strike pulls up strips of flesh. Not a one flays anything deeper than skin. And just as sudden as he started, he's done. Panting. Drops the whip from his raw, shaking hand. His fury is still present but his strength has run out. Breathless, he motions to them. I spit blood as they force me to stand.

He surveys the damage with a sneer, eyes lingering too long for my liking on my torn gown. He steps closer, wipes the bloodied hair from my swollen eyes to stare me down. "Let that be a lesson, Butcher. I'm Senecca Crane, the Gamemaster, and my family has been part of this sport for generations. And you? You're a worthless Tribute from a worthless District," he boasts, rising to his full height only inches from my face. "You're an ugly, homely little District brat in the Capitol of Panem and I won't tolerate your arrogance a_gah_-!"

I am the great Avitus, my would-be-Stylist roared. My wrists might be cuffed, but Crane's balls still squeeze tightly in my outstretched hands.

He gasps.

I yank. Twist. Hold. His private Peacekeepers ask for orders, weapons raised at me. All he musters is a muted squeal. For nearly a minute, no one moves. I feel a heady rush of power, like Tiberia's costume only stronger. These men with guns, I control them. Own them. Their master is at my mercy and they don't dare intervene. Let them go home tonight and tell the tale. Let them say that even bound and flogged Petra Angelovna took the Gamemaker by the balls. It's all a Game, the Hunger Games, but I've had a good Mentor. I'm learning how to play.

"You wake me in the dark of night, drag me from my bed with armed guards and then, then you have the gall to make them hold me while you beat a woman?" I snarl. "With a whip? Where I come they at least have the balls to use their _hands_," I wrench them tighter for emphasis. "You don't deserve to be called a man…and now you can't be."

But it's a stalemate, and I know it. I can't hold him forever, but I can't safely let him go. I'm just as trapped as he is, need Victor Ivan Klerkov worse than ever. _Impressed yet, slovoc? _But my Mentor doesn't come.

"Miss Angelovna?"

I turn, bewildered. It's a Game Enforcer. A female, I note with some surprise. "Miss Angelovna!" she calls again, drawing her sidearm. Then, "_Step away!"_

Fuck. I might have known. Six armed men and a bleeding girl, and the Capitol sides with whoever is richest. I let him go. Now the Game Enforcers are involved…_and_ _still_ _Klerkov doesn't come. _"Seize her!" Crane orders her, staggering back and retching. But my Mentor's not here. Wasn't watching, or doesn't care. I just attached the Gamemaster. That's it. I'm fucked.

"Step away." She commands brusquely, unsealing her visor. "It's alright now. My team will escort you inside." But Crane doesn't move. Her weapon is trained on him, I notice curiously. It takes me several seconds to realize she's been speaking to me this entire time. I blink. Senecca Crane is gaping like a fish.

"Miss Angelovna, to me!" She commands.

"NO!" Crane bellows from the ground as his Peacekeepers form up protectively. "I'm…I'm…not…done-"

"_Miss Angelovna, NOW!"_ She screams shrilly.

I try to step away. Crane's spindly grip grasps my ankle. There's a ping! and a low boom and he lets out a howl as his hand and my foot explode in a fountain of blood. _She shot him_, I realize numbly. _She shot the goddamned_ _Gamemaster_…

"_ANGELOVNA, DOWN!"_ They return fire. I dive to the pavement. She takes three to the chest, but her armor protects her. Even staggering backwards she takes two through the head, helmeted skulls bursting like ripe melons. She shouts in her radio, and more Enforcers come running, gunfire ripping the night and glass sheets and shards rain rippling in rushing cascades from the hotel face around us-

* * *

><p>I thought it was a game, just a game, one of Klerkov's stupid mind games…and now it's a fucking nightmare. I'm cowering on the steps, bound hands over my head when the shooting finally, mercifully stops. The dead weight of one of Crane's Peacekeepers is sheltering me. I sit up. Shove him off. The top half of his skull is missing. Three more of Crane's Peacekeepers lay dead. Two are bleeding freely. The street is eerily quiet, still echoing gunfire and the distant Crowd's faint screams. Bodies of white-clad Game Enforcers litter the courtyard like drifts of snow on a glassy sea.<p>

To my surprise, she's still standing. Her white uniform is stained and slick with blood. "You will order your men to stand down," she commands.

"I am _Senecca Crane!_ _The Gamemaster_, for Games' sakes-" Crane protests in shock, cradling his maimed hand and still spurting blood. "That insolent girl attached me! I want her killed!"

Even with his four remaining riflemen, she cocks that pistol once again, standing firm. Looking up at her, every brave thing I've ever done feels like selfish cowardice. "Hunger Games protocol dictates-"

"_I AM_ the damned Hunger Games protocol!" Crane roars as a Peacekeeper staunches the wound. "Execute her NOW!"

Their weapons are aimed at her. Hers is trained on him. She took out two of his best while staggering backwards, her small sidearm so powerful it takes both hands to wield it, the caliber so large it takes off _heads_. If she gets the shot off, even behind his Peacekeepers Senecca Crane is a dead man. It's a stalemate, a standoff, the deadliest game of bluffing, most terrifying feint I've ever witnessed. If I move, if she so much as blinks, all is lost…

But they are four. She is one. And her color is draining fast. With her yellowed skin and brown lips she looks like Ashira, like so many of the female Tributes from District 2. I wonder what brought her to the Capitol. Wonder why she would be willing to die for me. She buckles. But her hands never fumble. Even down on one knee she trains her strength against them. "Angelovna, inside." She croaks. "Now."

I crawl clumsily towards the door, slither through broken glass and bloodied bodies. Hear the click of a rifle. Two shots. One gouges the concrete not an inch from my shaking hand. Behind me, a Peacekeeper falls. It's three to one.

I turn back. She's sprawled on the ground now, utterly still, but somehow she keeps her grip. I've slit enough throats. Seen bleeding out. I know death is imminent.

"You're out of ammunition," Crane chuckles, relieved. "You worthless cunt."

"Bet your life?" She whispers back. He frowns, retreats again behind his remaining men.

"Shoot her," he orders. "Then shoot the girl."

"Sir-"

"Shoot her, damnit! I don't pay you to question orders or cower in front of one _woman-_!"

"Sir, that's a Mag-7," his detail argues again. "Armor-piercing pistol. If she isn't bluffing she'll fire a reflexive shot even if I put a bullet through her head-"

Another shot. The Mag-7 leaps in my arms, flings me backwards against the bricks. I gasp, winded, but manage to keep my awkward grip. I've seen men shoot rifles before, braced for the kickback, but was unprepared for this. The third Peacekeeper falls, cursing, rifle clattering out of his hands. "Well, fuck me," he groans from the ground, spitting shards of his helmet visor. "Forget Sheen. I live through this, I'm putting money on _her_."

"It's two to two, now." I call shakily, still clutching a dead Enforcer's weapon. "Armor piercing rounds. Take your boss and run and I won't kill you."

"You can't hardly fire that thing, honey," the Peacekeeper coughs, clutching the splintered remains of his shoulder. "And you can't aim worth _shit_. Run back inside now, honey," he waves me off kindly as his face turns grey. "Just run back inside…"

I just shot a man. Watched him die. And I didn't feel a thing. "Do it," she orders.

"Come with me," I beg her as I sidle backwards along the building to the safety of the doorway. "You don't have to die-"

She smiles grimly, echoes my father. "Everything dies."

But before I can move, before I can thank her, the familiar feel of a bayonet tip pricks my spine. I cringe. The Mag-7 falls slowly from my cuffed hands. "Well, well, well," a familiar voice chuckles as a Peacekeeper's boot kicks my weapon away. "We are at an impasse, aren't we."


	38. The Test

**AN: Still haven't watched the movie, so readers should know I've based Snow solely off my impressions from the book and the real life bastardliness of Dominican president Rafael Leonidas Trujillo. For more information on one of the 20****th**** century's worst misogynistic, meglomaniac, totalitarian motherfuckers , read or watch en el tiempo de las mariposas.**

* * *

><p>…Snow.<p>

Fuck. Fuck no.

I turn slowly. Unwillingly. Snow. President Coriolanus Snow. I had hoped I was mistaken, but that voice is one I've known since birth. The stench of roses wafts overpoweringly, and I fight back a gag. He's shorter in person than the Vids make him out to be, unimpressive and surprisingly plain. But if Klerkov's taught me anything it's that appearances are deceiving. Just the sound of his voice was enough for Crane's force to drop weapons and stand at comic salute.

He's not terrifying like Klerkov, yet I have no doubts he's the most powerful, most dangerous person in all of Panem. "Petra, my Petra," he hails me politely. "I was ever so hoping you'd join me." But that politeness is mocking. This isn't a rescue…it's a prison.

No Klerkov, no Tasha, no weapons, and my only other protector is dying on the floor. "Go," my Enforcer whispers in defeat, laying her head down to die. "Just go."

I obey.

"You are enjoying your stay in the Capitol, I trust?" Snow asks me as a Peacekeeper undoes my chains. "I do hope the hospitality has been to your liking." I'm battered. Bloody. Small bits of glass stick from my feet and hands, and the sound of gunshots is still ringing in my ears. Now the most powerful man in Panem has called for me by name. I try to speak. I can't.

"No?" He asks, amused. "Perhaps not. I have known many to have found it…_overwhelming_ on their first tour. But you shall grow accustomed to it in time, I don't doubt."

He levels a cool stare to Crane. "You and I shall speak later."

"But the _plan_-" Crane insists, clutching his ruined hand.

"Was merely that, a plan," Snow says curtly. "To be implemented if necessary. Nothing more. I trust you have resources to contain the situation?"

Crane flushes. "I-"

"See that they are satisfactory," he drones. "And now, my Petra, with me." He places a hand on the small of my back, and I have no choice but to comply. Over his small shoulder I catch a final glimpse of the slaughter. That Enforcer. The one who turned everything to Hell…her dark eyes are open, and a pool of red blood drains slowly from the corner of her sagging mouth.

* * *

><p>It's a private car. A carriage, actually, drawn by the finest grey stallions I've ever seen. I try not to let my surprise show. Try to wipe my face, my heart of emotions, but somehow Snow sees.<p>

"Are you surprised, then, to learn I prefer classic forms of transportation?" he asks casually.

"No," I lie.

"Oh, Petra—I may call you Petra, may I not?—you are in the Capitol now, and the tricks and propriety you learned in the Districts will not help you. You are amongst liars now," he pours a glass of strong, sweet smelling white wine, and offers it to me. I don't dare decline. "And every one of us is better than you."

"Yes." I finally blurt after a minute of silence.

"Yes?" He asks, amused.

"I'm surprised," I continue. "I thought you Capitol people liked your technology."

"Ah, yes," he reclines onto the cushions, "that has its uses. But you will find that so much technology, so much modernity, can be disheartening. We lose touch with our true humanity. I find a horse-drawn carriage to be strangely nostalgic, wouldn't you agree?"

"I don't know."

"You have no opinion?" He asks lightly. _They must remain interesting,_ I hear Klerkov's voice. _Even your idiot-child..._I have to keep him talking, I realize. I have to keep him entertained.

I shake my head. "I don't know what 'nostalgic' means."

He chuckles. "Tell me, Petra. I spend such rare time in the Districts I hardly know. You still have schools, in District 6, surely?"

He's mocking me. "I didn't finish."

"How much?"

"Two, maybe three years. It was patchy."

"And why is that, I wonder?" Snow presses.

"My sisters were sick. My father needed help to pay bills. The school was far. It got too cold." And I was ugly. My father paid, and the girls bullied me so much I ran home. He whipped me. Made me go back, and the next time the girls teased me I knocked out their teeth. When Matrona whipped me for it I took it, but when she called me an ugly ingrate I punched her teeth in as well. I wasn't invited back. But I'm not about to tell Snow any of that. Not unless I have to.

"Tell me," he continues, stirring his wine glass disinterestedly. "Can you read, at least?"

"Better than some," I admit. "Worse than others."

"Read this," he places the wine bottle in my hands. "Please."

I squint. Hold the wine-label close to my eyes and reflect it in the candlelight. It's been a long time since I was asked to read, and these letters are strange, flourished, faint. "I can't," I tell him after a minute.

His smile widens, and a bead of blood dribbles from his lips. Again that horrible stink of rotting roses. "_Try._"

I try not to stare. Try not to gag. Take the bottle with shaking hands and hold it again to the candle. My head—and heart—begin to pound.

"I'm wating," Snow sips his own glass patiently.

"R-" I begin, then stop.

"Go on," he prods.

"Roly…rol, rolli-" _Be interesting, durak! Impressive. Think, suka, think!_ But there's too damn many letters, and no sounds that make sense. Maybe I'm reading it wrong. Confused. Maybe I don't remember anymore. The wine, the light, the ever-present, plastered smile hiding his impatience…

I try. Several more times, until my voice shakes as bad as my hands. I shove the bottle down on the table, nearly tipping it in my frustration. "Damnit, I said _I can't_."

"There's no need to swear, Petra," he steadies it lazily. "It was cruel of me, a jest, if you will."

"Well I can't read it," I push my wine glass away, disgusted. "Satisfied?"

"Very. In fact I would have been astounded if you could." He deliberately places the crystal goblet back in my hand. "You see, it's a antebellum wine."

The word, and meaning, hangs heavy in the air. It's meant to frighten, to impress. Hesitantly I take a sip. "Antebellum?"

"Before the war. That label is written in a language now forbidden to utter."

My blood goes chill. "So why ask me to read it?"

"Petra, Petra," he chides. "You think too small. I ask _all_ District children to read it. On every tour. Every trip. And do you know why, Petra?"

"To make sure we can't," I realize with a shock. "You're not interested in whether the schools are teaching us. You make sure they _don't._"

"Very good," he nods in approval. "A very good thought indeed. But here is another. Why didn't you finish school, Petra?"

I flush. "I already told you-"

"No. You offered excuses," he corrects. "I wish to know the reason why."

"Lots of reasons."

"The _simplest_ reason," he demands. "I'm a better liar than you, need I remind you?"

"It was school or survive. My family chose to survive."

"Survival," he repeats. "Let us hope your limited schooling taught you that lesson, at the very least. You're the Butcher, aren't you?"

It's an abrupt change. I don't trust it. "I'm the daughter of one, yes."

"But that's what the crowd calls you, isn't it." Another inexplicable drop of blood leaks from his mouth. "Your eponym."

I lean away, carefully replacing my goblet on the table lest my hands or eyes betray me. "I didn't chose it."

"Perhaps not," he wipes blood from his pale lips with the corner of a crisp, white cloth. "But it is apt, is it not?"

"Perhaps." I finally concede. He's toying with me. Toying with me like Klerkov did. Like a bored cat with a crippled bird…but I won't be toyed with any longer. "Where are you taking me?" I demand.

"My summer Villa, of course," he explains conversationally as the carriage pulls to a halt. "You're to be my escort for the evening. Tell me Petra, do you dance? Oh, how thoughtless of me," he smiles condescendingly. "Doubtless you've never been asked. Well then, I'm not so cruel as to send a young woman into the Arena so deprived of her budding sexuality."

Dread and bile rise in my throat. "Think of tonight as your debut," he finishes as the footmen await him with a small flight of stairs. "And Petra?" He calls in parting, "Finish your drink. It's an excellent vintage…_and you'll need it_."


	39. The Career

****The Career****

****AN: More canon characters to come!****

* * *

><p>"Miss Angelov? Mr. Sheen?" a male voice calls as I limp down the carriage steps. "I suppose there's no need to introduce myself—"<p>

"Odair?" District 1's male Tribute gapes. I try not to let my surprise show at seeing either of them. "_Finnick_ Odair?"

"The one, the only," our famous host boasts with practiced bravado.

"I'm a fan," Sheen offers a hand, but instead Odair embraces him warmly. "Glad I'm not going out there against you."

Odair only laughs. "The feeling is mutual."

Odair. I was ten when he won. I still remember his terrible trident, still remember all the _Seto_ girls swooning. For weeks afterwards they kissed propaganda pictures of his face. Not me. He gave me nightmares as a child. He moves to embrace me as well, but I remember Haymitch and Mason. Charming as he seems, he's another Victor, and my Mentor is nowhere to be seen. That and even I know he has a _reputation_. I edge away. "What do you want?"

"What, no kiss?" Finnick asks, letting his arms fall. "Twelve years, and that's a first."

"You won _eight _years ago," I remind him cautiously.

"But I was kissing girls long before that!" his returns playfully. "I could show you, if you like."

"And I've been castrating pigs at least that long," I cross my arms. "I could show _you,_ if you like."

Far from put off, Odair only laughs. "Castration? Twelve years and that's another first. At least from a _girl,_" he stresses. "I've had plenty of threats from concerned fathers."

"You still got that Trident?" Sheen asks, ignoring me. I imagine he's been given the same warnings I have. Knows better than to strike up conversation. It'll be easier to kill me that way. Before the night is over, I'll make him talk to me. Become strong and do, I hear my father's words. _Luccan,_ I remind myself. _His name is Luccan…_

Finnick shakes his magnificent head. "It was auctioned. Brought me a fortune, though."

"Shame," Sheen—_Luccan,_ I force myself to think—says. "I would've liked to have it."

Odair laughs appreciatively. "I don't doubt it."

I'm not here for flirting, small talk, or Games past. "What do you want?" I repeat my question louder.

"Forgive me, Miss Angelov-"

"Angelov_na_," I correct, sick of formalities. Hell, I'd rather just be _Tribute_. "And it's just Petra."

"Petra," he continues professionally, dropping his provocative manner. "I assume this is…your first of these functions. I thought I'd introduce myself. Let you know there is established protocol for how these events are run. It might make it easier."

"Easier?" I wrinkle my nose. "How the hell can this be easier?"

"Better," Finnick amends, leading us into the Villa. "For you. Your family."

"Make _what_ better?" Luccan asks suspiciously as we pass under the walls. "Is someone going to tell me what the hell is going on?"

"You're about to meet Sponsors," Finnick states matter-of-factly as we pass through the dancing torchlight. High up above, flaming crosses line the rounded stone work, beautiful and wicked all at once. Already I hear the party music, taste the smell of roasting meat.

"No matter what happens, just do your best to impress," he instructs as the cobbled walk-way turns to smooth marble and alabaster columns. "Don't approach anyone," he tells us. "Don't speak unless spoken to. And most importantly, do _everything_ you're asked without hesitation or question."

"Sounds easy enough," Luccan shrugs. That's when I realize he doesn't know.

Finnick's smile falters in his handsome face. "It never is," he warns. "I thought it's best you be prepared." His green eyes linger long on me. I will myself to stop shaking. "In the mean time, help yourself to the food and bar," he gestures to a sumptuous spread. "Your Sponsors will be with you shortly."

* * *

><p>With a short bow and a friendly farewell, Finnick Odair leaves us. And the second he's gone, Luccan Sheen moves to put as much distance between us as possible. He can't afford to see me as human. I can't afford for him not to.<p>

…but fuck if I'm just going to sit here _waiting._ I miss Klerkov more than ever. _Plots. Spies. Accidents, Petra. Think, there has to be something..._

"He's lying, Luccan." I state, loud enough over the orchestra so he can't ignore me.

He grunts.

"It's not just Sponsors," I continue, picking glass out of my only recently healed palms. "They're _customers_. And we're the product. I just figured you ought to know."

"Piss off, Angelovna," he says dangerously. "I know what you're trying to do."

"That's what happens once we're Victors, Luccan." I unwedge a shard from between my toes. "They whore us out."

He snorts. "You've got some nerve if you think you can talk me out of winning."

"You think I'm lying, Luccan?" I glance up. He's watching me closely. "To scare you? Look at my face. Do I look like I'm kidding?" Maybe he's a better liar than me. Maybe not. But it hardly matters when I'm telling him the _truth._

"Already did." He grunts again, grabbing a drink and fishing for the olive. "Your Trainer teach you how to roll through glass?"

"And kill Careers," I return boldly, pulling more from my heel.

Luccan looks unimpressed. "You'd better hope he's good."

"You'd better hope he's not," I retort.

"Games, you're a _bitch_," he curses, downing his drink. "You know that?"

"I've heard it several times."

"So that's your plan, Butcher?" He spits my nickname around a flaky meat pastry, washing it down with a second drink. "You going to talk us all to death?"

There's a pate of butter and goose liver next to a twelve-tiered plate of bread. One for every District, I realize. I stand, limping, grab a familiar roll and flick a smear of cream across it in one smooth stroke. The knife is flat and dull, but I lick it anyway. "I prefer slitting throats," I nibble the crust. "And you?"

"I outweigh you by at least six stone," Luccan Sheen stirs his third drink in a triangular flask lined with salt. "It'll take more than a cheap parlor trick to scare me."

I turn the knife over in my fingers. The edge is harmless, I decide. "Catch." I throw, blade first. Instinct. Catch or be killed. He swears as the glass flask shatters across the floor, but my knife is clutched tightly in his fist.

I blink. He's fucking _fast._

"Alright, Angelovna, I'll admit it. You're good." He concedes. "I didn't expect that. I might be able to find a place for you," he juggles the knife expertly before tossing it back underhand. "On the Alliance, if you want."

I almost laugh, almost cry with relief. I've managed to impress a Career, might have a place on the Alliance...

I sit back down, eager to take the weight off my feet. "I'm not sure I'll need it."

He grabs yet another drink, and hands it to me to pour over the wounds. "We both know you do." I can't flinch, can't cry out. He watches me the entire time, apparently satisfied.

I've known since the Reaping broadcast that my age and size wouldn't be an advantage. Known I'll have to impress, frighten them all. The Crowd is one thing, Sponsors another, but the Alliance? I don't know if I'll accept. How I could. Everyone knows those _mudak_ turn on each other…

_So could you_, durak. _From inside the camp. Catch them sleeping_. I turn away from Luccan Sheen and pull a blade across his throat. I promised Malcovna, promised Malcovitch I wouldn't let him suffer. I'm willing to give Holi that same kindness. As for the others…Luccan and his Alliance will take care of them. Then themselves. Seeing his size, now knowing his speed…I'll have to either kill him first, or leave him last. I have no doubts he'll kill the others, all the others, for me.

"I'll have to sleep on it." I finally tell him, still squeezing the final shards of glass from my bleeding feet. I don't dare look at him. Not now. Not yet.

He snorts, and I hear him swallow yet another drink. Already I can smell the alcohol rolling off him. "You really think we'll get sleep tonight?" Haymitch, I'm reminded so suddenly. He's drinking just like Haymitch. Like Klerkov.

"So you believed me?" I muster the courage to look up.

"I had no choice," he finally confesses, eyes fixed inscrutably into that empty cup. "You're scared _shitless,_ Angelovna," he pops another pastry. "All the rest of this has just been whistling in the dark."

* * *

><p>Before I can counter we're interrupted. The doors Finnick disappeared through tilt inward on noiseless hinges, and the paraded stomping of marching boots echoes from the hall. Luccan begins to sweat. Downs another drink. I search frantically for a sharper knife.<p>

A man enters flanked by security, four private Peacekeepers. _Crane,_ I think with dread, jumping to put Luccan between us. They wouldn't dare shoot. Not here. Not now. Not with District 1's champion between us. "Not so brave now," he quips as I cling to his back. "A lion in the Arena but a lamb in bed? How provincial of you."

"Don't let them take me," I rush.

He laughs darkly. "And why should I do that?" _You're scared shitless. All the rest of this has just been whistling in the dark._ He was drinking, Petra. You saw him. He was just as scared as you—

"I can help you," I remind him. "Later. In the Arena."

"I'll have the Alliance," he hisses, taking a step back into me. "Neither of us need help _later,_ Angelovna, we need it n-"

But the Sponsor raises a single hand, and the soldiers—like our conversation—halt immediately. I can see their insignias—another ornate crest, but tongues of flame, not a Crane. It's hardly a relief. He's still here for one of us. _Do everything you're asked_, Finnick Odair instructed us. _Without hesitation or question. _Easy enough for him to say. He's had more lovers than I've had insults. The Sponsor surveys me silently, and I stare back, just as desperate. He has a blue and black forked beard, but his body is clad in armor, or skin scales, like a lizard. His bare feet end in three long, horny toes. "Makes you wonder what his dick looks like," Luccan mutters, clearly relieved. I try not to think on it. I already have. "Have fun with that."

"Luccan Sheen?" The lizard-man calls. I nearly choke in shock. Luccan's muscled back tenses beneath my hands.

"Have fun with that," I spit back at him. His strong jaw jumps, and his fingers flex, but not a hint of surprise, disgust, or fear alters his stony face. He swallows another drink, then steps reluctantly forward.

"Yes?"

The Peacekeepers part. Behind them is a girl draped head to toe in shocking red silk and pearls. "Might I introduce my daughter, Jezebella?" The lizard-man asks as she tosses her dark hair and drops her robe beguilingly. "It's her sixteenth birthday," her father explains, "and I promised her the best Panem has to offer. You would be…handsomely _compensated_, of course."

I hear his sigh of relief. Feel his shiver of excitement.

Luccan downs a final crystal flute of champagne in a single, steady gulp, and gives the girl a wink. "If _this_ is the Victor's life," he sets the empty glass in my hand without a backwards glance, "Get me to the fucking Games already." Far from any danger, Luccan Sheen of District 1 is about to have the night of his life. I sit back down with a strange sense of loss and watch them be escorted away. I know Petra Angelovna won't be so lucky.


	40. The Ally

**The Ally**

* * *

><p>I wait.<p>

Just wait. My bare feet hurt too much to pace, shoulders aching from shivering. Even bloodied and tattered my thin night dress is more than enough to keep me warm in the Capitol heat, but it's fear that makes my muscles twitch. And the fucking waiting just makes it worse.

From the party I hear music. Laughter. The clanking of glasses and spoons. All these people, all the Capitol people, are enjoying themselves feet from me, oblivious.

_Not oblivious, _durak, I remind myself. They know what this is. Know why I'm here. Why Luccan is here. And Mason and Games knows how many others.

_Luccan._ I grab a cup of wine and dip my hands in it. Begin to scrub my face. _Blyad,_ it _stings_, and I can't help but hiss. Crane might not know how to use a whip, but I still feel the welts and cuts protest shrilly. I mop my hair from my eyes, blood and glass coming away with my fingers.

Did I do it right? I wonder. A place on the Alliance…but he saw through me. Saw my fear. And I saw his. As momentary as it was, I saw it. Luccan Sheen might be a Career…but he's human. At least a part of him.

I'm Petra Stone-heart. Rocks can't feel. Rocks can't die. If I can kill Cry-baby, I can kill him. Which is the worse crime? The man, or the innocent child who can't understand? But the answer is Malcovitch. It will always be Malcovitch, and I have no room for pity for the man who would kill him, kill me, kill us all. My mind is made up. Let Luccan Sheen see my weaknesses. Propose an Alliance in a moment of fear. Seeing me as human will only make it harder for him to kill me, not me him.

My potential Ally is gone, my Mentor and Escort nowhere to be seen. And the little boy who believes me his friend is still sleeping alone in my bed while I wait to go to another's. _You are young an unloved_, Klerkov warned me, _And now you are far from home._ Sitting here alone, it feels like even further.

Snow's party continues, just out of reach. I am isolated, bare-foot, half-dressed and friendless. I wait. And wait. And I _wait._

* * *

><p>When that awful door finally opens I raise my head in relief. <em>Come on, then<em>, I will the man approaching me, _just do it and be done._

"Miss Petra?" He calls jovially. I sit up. Sigh. Eye him warily as he crosses the floor. He's another Capitol freak, draped in purple and gold of every imaginable hue, braided fringes and tinkling coins lining every seam, jingling with every step. I glance at his feet—normal. If belled and belted leather thongs rising from foot to mid-thigh could be considered normal. But I don't see a trace of their enhancements or alterations. _Wonder what his dick looks like_, Luccan's words come back to me. I shudder inwardly. _Let's hope that's normal, too._

"Heavensby, Plutarch Heavensby," he introduces himself with a kiss to both of my raw hands. "How are you this evening?"

"I'm going to the Hunger Games in two days," I face him bitterly. "How do you think I feel?"

"Ah," He pats my palms sadly. "I wouldn't presume to know."

"So how does this work?" I demand, sick of pleasantries. I might have to fuck him, but no one can make me be _civil._ "Do you fuck me here or do we go someplace?"

"Good Games!" He chokes, spewing wine. "My, but you are forward! No, dear girl. I personally prefer…shall we say, _other vintages_," his eyes sparkle amusedly. "And alas, no. I haven't the salary to pay for a pearl of such great price. I merely wished to see for myself before placing my bets. I am so sorry to have, ah, _intruded._"

"You're _not_ here for me?" I ask, suspicious.

"My darling girl, no." He intones encouragingly. "Merely to see you. I'm a man of small fortune, but have a penchant for gambling. And the Games, well, you can imagine are a sore temptation for a man such as myself," he smiles humbly. "One can rise high, or lose all, when playing the Hunger Games."

"So you're a _Sponsor_?" I ask, beginning to hope.

"Sponsor?" He laughs good-naturedly while sitting beside me. "No, my dear girl. The Games would never allow it, given my position. Merely an _investor._" He's not here for me. Not even to Sponsor me. Just to see. I've always been a freak. Baba yaga Angelovna. Now all of Panem's showed up to watch.

"You seem to know a lot about money for someone who claims not to have much," I say coldly.

He nibbles a pasty daintily. "Ah, superb!" He relates with relish. "My dear, you must try a fig cake. No, really, I insist-" He forces a pastry and an ornate cloth napkin into my hand. "Money? Yes, I suppose I know about money," he washes down the dry cakes with more wine. "It's a blasted business, having to spend it, having to find more of it, then having to spend it over again. Money will ruin a man, but, what is a man to do?" he shrugs helplessly. "But what I pride myself on is my knowledge of _people, _Miss Petra_. _That and sweets…" he pats his belly ruefully. "My truest weakness!"

"How much?" I'm overtaken by a dark curiosity.

"How much-?" His expression is pleasantly puzzled.

"How much do we go for?" What does the virginity of a Tribute cost?

"Well, that I would hardly know, dear girl. It would certainly depend on the Tribute, or Victor, in question. But a conservative estimate?" He frowns, thinking. "I would place such a luxury item in the range of several million yen."

"Yen?"

"Oh, forgive me, my dear. Our monetary system. Doubtless it's different where you're from. Let's see…District 6, was it?"

I nod.

"Barter, then, no standard currency. Hm, well. Yes, with your topography and climate it's not hard to guess why. Can you imagine the seasonal inflation? Disastrous!" He laughs to himself. "So, speaking in terms of a fixed quantity you would understand…say, oh, at least ten hundred thousand tessarae."

"Ten hundred _thousand_-?" I ask weakly. If I'd known I was walking around with _that _up my skirts, I might have sold it ages ago. Avoided the tessarae my father traded to pay my mother's and dead sisters' medic bills. Avoided the _Games._ But the idea is absurd. In 6 I wouldn't have fetched the price of a back alley whore. I'm ugly. Awkward. Strong. My only value, the only attraction, comes from my Reaping.

"At a conservative estimate," he nods. "You've made quite the _impression_, Miss Petra. Doubtless the bidding will rise higher."

He turns to me for answer, but I find I have nothing more to say. Not to him. Not to any of them. "My poor, dear girl," Heavensby mumbles sadly around a fig cake, again patting my hand. "Don't lose heart—there's _always_ a Victor. I see no reason it shouldn't be you."

He stands, and bows stiffly in farewell. "Here's my card," It's thick parchment, with a strange, beautiful golden bird that catches the light, but only from a certain angle. When I lift it closer to my eyes, it vanishes.

"It was wonderful to meet you, darling." Heavensby kisses me chastely on both cheeks in parting. "Do you know, I think you've quite convinced me. Do feel free to call Fulvia if you need anything during your stay." And with that, Plutarch Heavensby jingles away.

"Oh, and I must say, darling, your ah, _charming_ Mentor told the most amusing story regarding Avitus firing you," he hails me yet again from the door. "I imagine the outcome has garnered, shall we say, unwanted attention? Still, I suppose it was all for the best…"

…_that's not what happened,_ I blink stupidly. Then—

A rush of elation. _Klerkov's here!_ My heart races desperately. _Klerkov knows!_ I turn that card over and over, trying to find the hidden message, but all I find is:

PLUTARCH HEAVENSBY, ASSISTANT GAMEMAKER

FULVIA MARTIN, secretary

But no matter how many times I move that card in the light, that beautiful golden bird is gone. Did I imagine it? Had it only been a trick of the light?

I was waiting for a heartless rapist, and met Plutarch Heavensby instead. A flabby, jovial, harmless investor with no interest in women, a business card, the casual mention of Klerkov and Avitus…it's all so benign it could just be coincidence. Could be. But I know Victor Ivan Klerkov better than that. President Snow might think himself a better liar, but my Mentor has played this Game at least as long as he has.

…and _better._

Plots. Spies. Accidents, I think with a smile as I crumple that card between my fingers. It's evidence. It's hope. I know my Mentor is trying to tell me something, but _what?_


	41. The Scandal

**The Scandal**

* * *

><p>My next suitor is a familiar face. "You," I accuse Snow. "You made me wait here. In bare feet and a ripped night-dress. Just to feel scared."<p>

"Don't be naïve, Petra," He chides me like an errant daughter. "I've been acquiring customers. It seems you're a harder fit than Mr. Sheen. Forgive me, I should have known. Men are always willing to pay more for mint product."

I frown. "If you mean cunt, just say it."

"There is no need to swear, Petra," he reminds me. "Might I kindly suggest you refrain? Come." He commands.

His tone is light, but his words heavy. Heavensby's card is tucked in the front of my gown, next to my heart. Klerkov's close. Sent a spy right into Snow's party, into his own house…and with that reminder, I find have no more fear of him.

…But I have to be careful. Snow can _sense_ it. I avoid his eyes as we walk. "Then what are you doing?"

"Isn't it obvious, Petra?" He asks boredly. "I'm not simply selling you, I'm auctioning you off to the highest bidder. I've found men are always less…_frugal _with their money when others are watching. It's an election year, and a Hunger Games Victor commands an impressive price." He informs me casually as though discussing the weather. "I can't blame them for insisting on inspecting the wares."

I Blanch. Stop. Fingers pull the skirt-hem taut. "You have that medic report-"

"Nothing so crude as that," Snow dismisses my panic with the wave of his hand. "They merely pine for the pleasure of a dance, a conversation, your company. I suppose I need not warn you to be on your best behavior?"

He just _did._ And I equally don't dare ask for more or better clothes, or I risk getting sent out naked. Barefoot. Nightdress. Covered in glass, smears of blood and now wine. He's trying to intimidate me, and so far in the impressive awe of this endless Villa it's working.

_It's a Game, _durak_, just a Game,_ I remind myself, running a little to catch up. Cryptic as it was, I remember Tiberia's warning to Cinna: _Not the outfit that makes the Tribute, not the Games that make the Victor, but the heart that fuels the champion…The outfit does not matter. It cannot matter. What matters is the heart. If that heart is weak, the most skilled hands cannot save it. We do not dress, we undress. Do not create, but reveal._

It doesn't matter how I'm dressed. Right now I have to be Klerkov's champion. Have to be a Victor. Have to play this Game and win…or I'm fucked. Completely, utterly, totally _fucked._

…and this time for real.

President Snow offers me his arm, and together we walk down the gilt marble stairs to the applause of the gathered guests below. I hold my head high, my shoulders back, walk like Victor Ivan Klerkov taught me. I might look like an ugly, beat-up girl in a nightdress, but all they see is Klerkov's champion.

* * *

><p>The walls are rounded, made of marble, with pillars stretching ever upwards to support the sides and absent roof. Above us, the dome opens to the sky, and those crosses flicker weakly above us, like a hundred horrid candles. We weave through the gathered crowd, each face, each alteration as shocking as the next. In this hall, all this hall, could it be only Snow and I are…normal?I don't let it show. See people who would be bulls and oxen, stallions and boar, wild cats and bear, wolves and foxes, and women disguised as birds so bright their feathers blind. <em>I've killed you,<em> I tell them. _All of you. Stripped your skins and tanned your hides. Undone your limbs, pried out your guts, ate your flesh. I'm Petra Angelovna, the Butcher's daughter, and you don't frighten me._

We descend stairways and slopes, tread by fountains and springs, through a walk-way raised over crystal water filled with fantastic fish of every size and color. Row upon row of small silk pavilions lie tucked away in lush gardens, their occupants reclining at tables and waited by Avox and Peacekeepers alike. All rise as Snow passes, raising goblets or salutes. Others hail him, and he dips his head in recognition of their praise.

The orchestra asks to play a tune in my honor, and Snow requests my District anthem. He leads me to the floor, and places a hand on my waist.

"Tell me, Petra," he looks up at me to ask as the music begins to play. "Can you dance?" He's balding, clean-shaven, perhaps my father's age, but not nearly as hairy or threatening. Not nearly as strong. Not nearly as fast. It would be a simple matter. He couldn't escape me. I could snap his neck, right here, and kill him. I should snap his neck, right here, right now…but I don't. Something stops me, and all I can wonder is how such an undangerous man be so fucking _powerful. _

I choose my next words carefully, trying not to stomp his toes. "I've never learned."

Snow smiles, but there's no humor in his eyes. "That wasn't my question."

"I will," I finally whisper.

"Better," he hisses. "Again."

"I will."

"Repeat it."

"_I will_." My face is hot.

"Remember those words, Petra," he whispers as the stench of roses overpowers me. "Tonight, you'll need them."

* * *

><p>"Miss Angelov?"<p>

_Ange_lovna_, you_ slovoc_._ "Yes?"

"Sibyline Crane. Might I cut in?"

_No!_ I want to shout, but Snow places my hand in his. "Certainly," he bows gracefully, taking his leave. "Gamemaker Crane and his wife are my honored guests," Snow introduces him formally. "All the much more so for his _family connections_."

_Senecca._ My mouth goes dry. "Family is everything," Crane returns gravely, his gaze never wavering from me.

"All the much more so when it is family with fortune," a familiar man in purple hails them warmly. "Do pass my compliments along to your wife, Sibyline. And please _do_ thank her for her generous donation. It gets harder and harder to fund educational broadcasts without substantial private contributions." He pecks the man on the cheek before offering an arm to Snow. "Ah, Excellency, if you will?" They stroll away, arm in arm, as Heavensby elaborates on the upcoming Games. "The ah, changes, as we discussed, will not be a concern so much of time but of cost. My team, however, are happy to implement them on the Games' credit, if that please you-"

PLUTARCH HEAVENSBY, ASSISTANT GAMEMAKER. It's only natural. Coincidental. And yet-

And yet after meeting Victor Ivan Klerkov I no longer believe in _coincidence_. His card. That bird. His mention of Klerkov and Avitus…could this be another clue?

But Sibyline Crane doesn't give me time to think it out. He wrenches me so close I can taste the garlic on his breath, and feel the seams of his clothing through my dress. "I hear from good authority you caused quite the scene this evening." I wrinkle my nose. _I hear from good authority you're fucking a Cobra._

Instead I shrug. "People hear lots of things."

He spins me slowly, eyes cold. "I heard you attacked a relative of mine."

_I watched her handling a Senator. In public_. "Perhaps you heard wrong," I force a smile.

He leers back. "Perhaps I did." Then the hand on my waist gropes a few inches lower. It's instinct by now. Maybe fear. I do what any girl would do, and punch him straight in the fucking face.

The orchestra never misses a note, and the dance goes on around us. But the couples nearest us are beginning to stare. He's doubled over, dripping blood, and even over the music I hear the sharp snick and sucking sound as he readjusts his nose. I have half a mind to run. _Run where, _durak?_ There's nowhere in Panem you'll ever be safe-_

When he finally rises, his gaze is ruinous."That was rude, Butcher."

Somehow I keep the quaver out of my voice. "So was grabbing my ass."

"You don't understand how this Game works, do you?" He hisses, forcing me back into the dance.

"Twenty-four go in," I state brazenly. "One comes out. Me. And you know that, don't you, or I wouldn't be here."

"You'll be sold, regardless of your antics," Crane spits, pulling me close again. "Be on your best behavior, aim to impress, and you'll be treated well. In this room are men who would pay a great sum to pleasure you, and others who would pay a great deal more for the pleasure of _hurting _you," he explains, clenching my wrist with his nails for emphasis. "If I were you, I'd do my best to find the first."

There's no question which he falls in, no question he's rich enough, no question he'd do it. I didn't just humiliate his brother I realize, I humiliated the family name. Tasha talked about tabloids and scandals, Capitol goings-on we miss out in the Districts. She thought it could sway them…maybe it can. Maybe Iridina can still save me, after all. I choose my next words carefully. "And if I were _you_, I'd do my best to be more discrete."

"Are you threatening me?" Crane mocks, almost humored. "With what?"

"Your reputation. Rumor is you'd fuck a _Snake _if someone held it straight for you."

_Iridina._ From the way he straightens, I know it's true. "There are many rumors," he tells me coolly.

"I hear from good authority this one is true," I throw his words back in his face as we waltz. "Does your wife know?"

"We have an open arrangement-"

He didn't answer my question, I realize. A direct answer would be a lie. This is a dodge. And there's only one reason he would dodge: he knows he can't tell me the truth, but he doesn't know if he can tell me a lie, either. _Not all of you, Snow._

"Good. Then you wouldn't mind me telling-"

"You have no way of contacting her-"

"Avox," I smile. "Or fans. An army of them. I'm a Tribute, remember?"

"I can have my security intercept any such messages, you foolish girl."

"Speaking of your security, that's them now, isn't it?" I ask, nodding towards a dark clump of Peacekeepers with at familiar insignia surrounding a laughing woman dressed in white and long, elaborate feathers. Her legs are bent backwards like a bird's, as thin as spindles, and graceful, elegant wings adorn her shoulders. "Family crest, I'm guessing. And that'd be your wife right _there_."

She laughs again, coiffed hair tossing as her tapered wings beat merrily. And that's when it hits me. A falcon's short wings. She's a falcon, not a crane. Not a _Crane_. _Family with fortune_, Heavensby just happened to drop…

The music ends. I step away. "Let's go tell her, shall we?"

Crane grabs my wrist. "What do you want?"

"I want you to buy me."

He blinks.

"Then I want you to _let me go_," I explain. "And if you don't outbid them all, if you don't save me, if I get so much as a pinch on my ass or a hand on a tit, I'll find a way to tell her."

* * *

><p>It was a good plan. Until now.<p>

"Oh, Sibyl, you shouldn't have!" She cries the moment she spots us. "Petra? Petra Angelovna? The Petra? The Butcher? The Butcher-Butcher? Oh, darling!" She kisses him, then kisses both my cheeks. Twice.

"My wife," Crane says quickly, treading on my foot lest I speak. "Peregrinna Crane."

"Peregrinna _Aquila_-Crane," She corrects him sharply. "But you, darling, call me Peri!"

"You!" She demands of an Avox. "Take our picture! And Sibyl, you, too!"

He has no choice but comply, sapped of authority by this vapid, wealthy woman. I'm reminded suddenly of Quintina.

"Would you sign this, darling?" She begs me, thrusting the print into my chest with alarming force. "To Peri, from Petra? Or the Butcher? No, to Peri from _Petra_ sounds so much more intimate-" She swipes it away the moment I've finished. "Oh, look at _that!_ " she hugs it gleefully to her chest, wings beating haphazardly. "Adrianna will just _die _of envy!"

"One more, please?" Peri begs me with a wink, outstretched wings shuffling me closer. "Just us girls?"

The Avox snaps another pictures. " Take two or three!" She orders. "Well, there now. You poor dear, with those kidnappers this morning! Sibyl told me the whole story! Don't you worry, dear, they've caught the terrorists and they're going to pay, poor thing. But you held your own! Oh, just the thought of it, escaping all on your own like that you must be ever so clever!" Here she pinches my cheeks like a child. "Oh, darling, would you sign this for my son? Little Icarus? He's just a wee boy but he's rooting for you to win, we all are!" She kisses me again, gushing. "Take care, dearie…and may the odds be ever in your favor!"

Sibyline Crane is a fucking fool. I thought I'd be threatening him with the loss of his wife. I never realized I'd be doing him a _favor._

* * *

><p>"Take her," Sibyline Crane spits, shoving me away.<p>

If Snow is startled, he doesn't let it show. "You were dissatisfied with the merchandise?"

"I'm more than happy with my own," he nods tersely to his wife. "We're leaving."

Snow's face remains emotionless. "So soon?"

"A family emergency."

"Family has its uses," Snow concedes. "See it doesn't effect _yours._"

"Of course, Excellency," Crane simpers sourly, casting me a telling glare. "I bid you good evening."

"And the same to you," Snow offers stiffly.

Plots. Spies. Accidents. So much for that. Plutarch Heavensby's business card lies crumpled near my breasts, and I don't dare scratch no matter how it pokes.

"Frankly, Petra, I'm _astounded_," Snow drags me into an empty pavilion "Tell me, how did you manage that?"

I stare at my feet a long, long time."Because he's lying," I finally admit. "About being satisfied. And I know someone with a tongue as loose as his pants, that's how." Too late I remember Cinna Raelius, tricking me into revealing Tasha as the one who warned me about him. But I can't take the words back, and I don't dare lie. Not to Snow.

…and by now I've met dozens of Capitol citizens. Any one of them could have talked. If Iridina—or Quinta, I remember how young she is with unease—is blamed, so be it. The Hunger Games is about survival. Better them than me.

"Petra, Petra," Snow remonstrates with a slow shake of his head, opening the silk flap for me to exit, "Blackmail? Do you really believe it will be that _easy?_"


	42. The Gift

****The Gift****

* * *

><p>Gamemasters Senecca and Sibyline Crane were enough to frighten me.<p>

…Senator Sapeans is just fucking _insulting_. The man Snow leaves me with is only waist-high, cavorting around on wooden stilts to be tall enough to pass for normal. His brow is too big, his face shrunken and misshapen. And his legs…they're short and bowed. Disproportionate, Marcus Raelius called me, but now I feel almost beautiful in comparison. But Sapeans' height isn't the worst part. He's also chosen to alter himself like one of those hairy muttations on the Games, with shaggy dark fur lining the ends of his sleeves. His hands are large, hard, and leathery, his face flat and broad with flaring nostrils.

What were those muttations called? It's been Games ago, but Claudius Templesmith's announcements come back to me: Japes. The Gamemakers' pet name: _gigantic apes._

"Here, darling!" He totters over on those stilts, and kisses my hands with flourish. "Senator Roma Sapeans. If I might-?" He flicks his hairy wrist, and a waiting Avox opens an ice-lined chest. "I thought, for you, for the occasion-"

A frosted, steaming ice bottle is laid in a silk towel then placed gently in my hands. _Gorzalka_, I realize. _Ch'yort._

_Gorzalka_. It's an ice-distilled vodka reserved only for the wealthiest in District 6, drunk in saunas overlying the hot-springs. You have to drink it fast—even in 6 the bottle will melt. But it's not just difficult to distill, it's fucking _strong_. Every old man tells stories of a boasting young mudillo who's died drinking too much too fast because they didn't know better or wanted to impress their friends. There's also a roaring counterfeit market, tainted to smell and look right, but you have to be careful—it can _blind_. True _Gorzalka_ is a rarity, and a favorite among men like the Mayor and his visiting Capitol guests. In all my life, I've only ever seen it once.

It was the Victory Tour when I was thirteen, when Fame won. Another District 1 male Victor, eating our countryside raw after murdering our children. Part of the entourage stayed. 'Tourism', the Mayor called it, although none of us understood why the Capitol citizens would _want_ to stay in _6_. 'The Family' as we called them rented out a hut in the Victor's Village. Only two of the twelve mansions were ever occupied. The Maneater had one, and the other were the Silence. Married for years, marred by morphling, they hadn't been _seen_ since before I was born. Berezoski took The Family fishing, and they caught a sturgeon so large it took a cart piled with ice and four oxen to drag it back to _Selo_. It was spawning season, and she was still pregnant.

The Family sent word for the best butcher in the District to retrieve the _ikrak_, and the people chose my father. My father sent me. "An opportunity, my Petra," was all he said, then bundled me off with the Peacekeepers for a ride into _Selo_. The servants scrubbed me and laced me, but when I was presented to the wife she ordered me out of her sight. Not fifteen minutes later, the husband introduced me as my own twin brother, Petyr, and she gladly accepted. I was told to stay out of sight, out of mind, but they were so happy with their cuttings they kept me on for a week butchering the same damn fish. I slept in the servants' quarters, with a room to my own larger than my house. It was terrifying, but magical, the first time I'd been in a house with electricity and not just a medic's clinic. For six days I sat music lessons and tutoring with their children, practiced my reading with their many books. And on the last night, when the Mayor with Vladmir and Dmitri and even the Maneater came to farewell them, he opened not one but two bottles of _Gorzalka,_ one for his guests, and one for the staff_._ I was the youngest, the newest, and all it amounted to was the tiniest of sips but it tasted so sweet on my tongue. When it came time to leave, I begged him to take me with them. "I would, Petyr," the husband always called me Petyr, "but the law doesn't look kindly on such things."

I cried when they left, cried for weeks after I walked home. I had been content before, now I just felt wretched. "Why did you send me?" I accused my father.

"Why did you stay?" My father wanted me to see that life could be better. More. "When you marry, my Petra," he told me, "marry so your children can enjoy such things."

I hold the steaming bottle up to the light, and the prism breaks it into a myriad of dancing colors. Marriage. Children. I was an ugly, uneducated girl from the mountain villages. One whose mother couldn't find a match no matter how drunk, amputated or old she tried. There would be no escape for me that way. But maybe, maybe, I think as I savor that swallow, there is _here_.

* * *

><p>He pours me a shot, and I accept. Throw back my head. Gulp.<p>

"You find it adequate?" The Senator asks with concern. "I had my men research, and this-"

"It's wonderful," I interrupt. "The best I've had. Try some."

He tuts, waving his hairy hands. "My dear, one hardly takes back a gift-"

"Really." I right another shot glass of sculpted ice. "It's the best of 6. You ought to have it."

"I-"

"Have it before you have me. I insist," I push the glass his way. "It's my District's best."

Hesitantly he pours, then sips it daintily like one would wine.

He chokes. I smile.

"My dear girl, I _do_ apologize," he coughs earnestly. "I was led to believe this was a fine drink-"

"It is," I smirk, then take the bottle from his hands. My fingers nearly burn from the cold. "Let me show you." I pour a shot, and down it in a single gulp, the alcohol boiling and chilling all at once, my eyes watering and nose beginning to tingle. My lips are coated in frost.

"That's barbaric," Sapeans intones with disapproval. "Really, my dear, it's hardly appropriate-"

"If you don't believe me, ask my Mentor," I shrug. "He's around here somewhere."

He looks doubtful. "It's a tradition? Among your District?"

I pour another shot, and push it his way. "You try."

"My dear girl, I don't think I should-" he begins, but I interrupt.

"What else did your men tell you about 6?"

"The climate, the topography, the agriculture and labor camps-"

"Did they tell you that in 6 a man's strength isn't judged by his _size_?" Now I have his attention. Marcus Raelius said they culled boys like Malcovitch before they were born, so I'm assuming being born a dwarf isn't a popular choice in the Capitol either. No matter how rich, powerful, or altered Senator Sapeans becomes, there's two things he'll never have: respect, and a woman's true admiration. What the hell. I'll offer _both._ "It's by how much vodka he can hold. They're always having competitions, and women claw each other's eyes out to fuck the winners." I throw back the shot I poured for him.

_Blyad_, it burns. I pour him another. He sputters, but swallows it whole.

"We better drink it quickly," I tell him as a bead of chilled, icy water runs down my arm. "It's such a wonderful gift it'd be a shame to waste."

* * *

><p>I toast the Senator. I toast his health. I toast his re-election, his campaign, his wife, his Party, the Capitol, District 6, the Hunger Games, even President Snow-<p>

"Really," Sapeans protests feebly, swaying in his seat. "I think that's enough-"

"But it's a special vodka," I say. "For a special occasion. And tonight is special, don't you think?" Then I toast every damn thing I know about the Capitol until there's not a drop left, and the Senator can't even _stand._

"So what do you say I strip your clothes off and fuck you right here, right now?" I ask, undoing his belt.

"I would like that," he giggles feebly. " very much!"

"I don't think that's going to work."

His bleary eyes seem genuinely baffled. "Why not?"

"Because you're short," I snap. "You're hairy, you're goddamned ugly…and I've deboned fishless _limp_."

One of his Peacekeepers lets out a snort, then excuses himself. Outside the pavilion, peals of grotesque laughter ring. "How dare you-!" Senator Roma Sapeans croaks and flushes a blotchy puce, trying to stand. He takes half a swaying step on his stilts, totters, then falls face-forward onto the tile, unmoving.

"Sir?" His private Peacekeepers rush over instantly. "_Sir—!_"

"You poisoned him!" one accuses me, rolling him over. He's vomited all over, and pissed his pants. His fingernails have turned a shocking shade of blue. "Call for a medic!"

"He did this to himself," I retort. "You all saw. All I did was _pour_."

* * *

><p>I exit the pavilion while Sapean's Peacekeepers try to revive him. One's run for a medic, and with all the distraction maybe my disappearance will go unnoticed.<p>

But my plans are dashed. No sooner do I leave then run headlong into something large, bearded, and reeking of alcohol. "MOYA PET'RENKA!" Familiar bear-like arms choke me in a strangle-hold. He lifts me bodily and rumples my hair with his bony knuckles before setting me down, breathless, while a gaggle of giddy women giggle. "Is that _the man_?" He roars in approval, opening the tent-flap to get a better look.

"See, my darlings?" He calls, grandiose. "The man cannot _stand _after their love-making! And she was a virgin, no less!" He thumps his chest and shakes me with glee. "It is true, then, what Victor Ivan Klerkov has told you. You may fantasize about 4, but it is we from 6 who truly know how to fuck!"

They fawn over him, preening and primping. "Victor here has just told us the most amusing story," one titters, running her hands over his muscled arms.

"Really, Victor," another pouts, tugging his beard as to make him turn to _her._ "I can't believe Avitus would fire her over such a little misunderstanding."

"You're an animal," another purrs, raking her fingers through the hair on his sagging man's breasts. "Do it here. For me."

"Here?" Klerkov asks, feigning alarm. "Now? In public? Victor Ivan Klerkov might be an animal in the bedroom, but he is hardly rude!" Then unexpectedly he belches once, just for them, sending them into a chorus of giggles and getting cold stares for his impudence. Bodily functions, it would seem, are so horrifically unpopular with the Capitol elite as to be taboo.

…as to how that makes them sexually appealing, I won't even begin to ponder.

_Your charming Mentor told me the most amusing story about Avitus firing you_. Heavensby's words. He might have told me the story, I reflect bitterly. They call him free-spirited. Barbaric. Savage. Animal. Relic. One even goes so far as to call him _Vicky._ "You're such a _man_," she moans coarsely. "I want you. I _need _you. _Here. Now_." She insists.

"As you will," Klerkov shrugs, pulling her close with one enormous arm. "But Victor Ivan Klerkov has _two arms!"_ He roars, embracing me. "Join us!" But this isn't drunken, sodden, 'entertain me' Klerkov, it's a man hiding his schemes behind his reputation, and with that I decide this isn't a rescue. The story, that hint, is all the help he can give me. I disentangle from his grasp around my waist clumsily as he pinches my breasts and calls me "Feisty!" This might be him helping me, but I'll still slap him in the morning, I decide. Right now I probably have bruises with his thumbprints…and they're probably bigger than my actual _breasts._

"My apologies, Klerkov," I hear President Snow's voice ring without a trace of humor. "Your Tribute has a previous engagement."

"_Engagement?_" My Mentor seems shocked. "_Moya Pet'renka_, just because you fuck them doesn't mean you must marry!" And with a gale of laughter he leaves me, three women dangling slavish under each arm.

My face is flushed, my hair thoroughly rumpled, and now my gown askew. I tug it back in place, and turn reluctantly. "I tire of your impudence," Snow informs me coldly.

"I did everything you asked," I return, nursing my suddenly pounding head. "It's hardly my fault he wasn't up for it. I hope you give him a refund." _That's it, _durak_. Cinna was right: you couldn't hold your tongue to save your life._

"You think yourself clever?" He returns coldly. "Let us test your theory, Petra. Think your way out of _this_."

…I _will_. I must. Snow warned me to be on my best behavior. I can't fight them off. Can't fool them all. But I can convince them they'd rather _not._ I had a bottle of wine in bed. Now half a bottle of _Gorzalka_…

If I were to suddenly become violently ill, it wouldn't seem all that far-fetched. In fact, I realize as my stomach begins to twinge and the room starts to spin, I might not even have to fake it.

* * *

><p>Snow leaves me with a pack of foppish, altered fools, each vying for my attention. Some want to dance, others converse, one offers roses, another wine, and one offers <em>food. <em>It's just some sweet Capitol pastry, but I accept. With as much as I've drank, I need it. Badly.

I devour an entire platter-full, to the Ox's chagrin. The others swarm around us like flies as he leads me to a banquet. I have him load my plate with potatoes and hot meat dripping with fat until it's overflowing, and my stomach and his not-so-furtive glances become queasier and queasier. I eat. With manners, but I eat. And eat. _And eat._ I've heard before that Capitol people will eat at feasts until they vomit, then they come back and eat more. But from the looks cast my way, it's either not true, or not _feminine._

"The food is…to your liking?" The Ox-man asks me hesitantly.

I nod. Shove another forkful. "Yeah. I mean, yes."

"Perhaps you would like to try the linguini?" He offers the dish on a hoofed arm with poise.

My stomach heaves. "Are those _worms_?" I cry in disgust. Our flock is aghast.

"Good Games, no," he croaks. "It's a pasta."

"What's a pasta?" I prod the stringy dish suspiciously. It's layered with heavy cream, peas and some sort of fish—far too old, from the smell of it. "It looks like worms to me."

"You…you don't know?" He bobs his horned head bewilderedly.

I shake my head. Crinkle my nose. "We don't eat that in 6."

"What do you barbarians eat?" another mutters. "Besides meat and _snow_."

"We grow things," I inform them. "You know, like cabbage, oats, barley, carrots, potatoes-"

"Nothing grows in 6," a would-be-wolf scoffs. "It's far too _cold_. Everyone knows produce is from District 11."

I try not to gape at his stupidity. "We also eat fish-"

"Fish come from _District 4_." Another informs me as though I were a small child.

"We grow food and we fish, too." I explain. "At least in _my_ District."

"I hear you drink a lot, as well," the Stag at the end of the table grins darkly.

_He knows about Sapeans_, I realize. _What I did_. I swallow. "We do."

"The rest of your District?" He inquires, dipping his antlered head in mock-politeness. "Or just you?" He'll be the hardest to get rid of, I decide.

"_Everyone_," I emphasize.

"And is that all the time…or only on _special occasions?_" the Stag presses.

I turn to the Ox-man, who's been desperately trying to get my attention with more pastries. "You want to dance?" I ask him, then drag him away by the hoof. He seems the least intelligent, least talkative, and least of a _threat_. We're followed. Even out onto the floor five or six of them dog our every movement. And at the end of the song, the Wolf butts in only to be interrupted by yet another. It's all done with a mind-numbing amount of manners and tact, but I can feel their tempers rising.

I've seen bulls clash until both are bloody. _Can I pit them against each other? _I wonder. _Start a fight-?_

But I won't need to. Klerkov's plan—and all that alcohol with rich, Capitol food on an empty, nervous stomach—is beginning to work. I burp. Just a short croak, but my partner seems mortified. "Excuse me," I apologize. Then I burp again. The song goes on, and they keep interrupting each other, but when I cycle through them again, the Wolf is gone.

_One,_ I think with relief. This time I burp louder, beg their pardon with all the humiliation I can muster. "Must be the food," I explain.

"Yes," the Stag drawls, cutting in. "You seemed to enjoy it, didn't you?"

_Ch'yort_. He asks me for a dance, and I have no choice but accept.

"Do you take us all for fools, Petra Angelovna?"

_Only some of you_. "Why would you ask that?" I try to make my face startled.

"Because you must. It's the only explanation I can offer as to why you would try such simple, childish tricks."

_Or perhaps I just don't want to get raped_. _There's a thought, _mudillo. "Childish tricks?"

"Threatening a Senator? Drinking another under the table? Come now, you're not a child, you're a _woman_," he emphasizes with a downward glance. "An ugly woman to be sure, Petra Angelovna, yet now men vie for the pleasure of a simple dance. This is an opportunity to have any man of your choosing. If I were you, I wouldn't waste it."

Not any man, just one of them. The man _I'd_ choose isn't here. "And you think I should choose you." I return. "Why?"

"I'm not a juvenile fool, nor a drunk, neither cruel nor inexperienced when it comes to a woman's wants. Forgive my boast but I am intelligent, and possess a rudimentary if not second-hand knowledge of your District at least."

I smile. "If you think those things are all a woman wants, you're either not as intelligent or not experienced as you think."

"And what would you have?" The Stag scoffs, spinning me. "A handsome young prince on a white stallion? Perhaps I was wrong. Perhaps you're only a foolish girl after all." It was a motorbike, not a stallion. And that's not what I wanted, it was just what everyone _else_ wanted. To a young village girl, it felt the same.

I burp again, this time on accident…and I taste acid. "I think I'm going to hurl-"

"Don't be naïve, Petra Angelovna," the Stag says. "Your games won't work with me."

The next time it comes, I can feel it rising in my throat…and a writhing in my bowels. "No, really," I gasp as my face turns pale and my hands all sweaty. "I'm about to be _sick._"


	43. The Senator

**The Senator**

**AN: Petra's , or any other characters' viewpoints on any social or political issues are THEIRS ONLY and are not intended as a reflection of the author.  
><strong>

* * *

><p>He almost didn't believe me, but when I started to retch he rushed me to the girl's toilet. Even then, we had an Escort of three, too determined or too stupid to give up. I hurl, gag, swallow it back, have to reach the sink—<p>

But that writhing in the pit of my stomach nearly explodes. I heave down the front of my clothes and run for the toilet instead. One of those porcelain ones, not just a hole in the floor. It probably cost as much as my whole fucking village and it's just something to shit it.

…messily.

_Bl'yad_, I miss home. When you're sick, it's outside on the privy and there's no one to hear you. Here some _mudillo_ thought it'd be classy to line the whole fucking place with arched ceilings and stone. It echoes the loudest noises and grossest splashings until even the sound of it keeps me retching. And there's _more than one_. What _durak_ thought of that?

Another stall door slams open. I look up through my sticky, sweaty hair as chunks of half-eaten I don't want to know what drip from my knees. A Senator. "Games!" He swears in disgust, adjusting his pants. "Have you never heard of the vomatorium-?"

"Sorry," I spit strings of saliva. "Thought this was a bathroom, not a _brothel_."

"What are you doing here?" A familiar, grating voice demands.

"Being violently _sick,_" I hack out a long string of phlegm. "What the fuck does it look like?"

"How did you get in?" Iridina insists stalking closer, her lidless eyes narrowing.

Two men in one night? _Ch'yort._ "Whore's entrance," I croak. "Same as you." And thanks for all the fucking help. I hope she gets poxed…and I hope Marcus refuses to treat her.

"Don't be ridiculous," she snaps, cheeks flushed as red as her slitted eyes. "Who would pay for _you?_"

"Seventeen Senators and a Gamemaker," I look up at her coolly, wiping sick from my chin. "I guess that's proof you don't have to flash your tits to get a man."

She arches her hooded neck and hisses. "Not that you'd know, _Tribute._"

I stand. Lift my skirt and wipe my ass. She flicks her tongue once, then leaves me with a scathing glance.

* * *

><p>"Take her." The Stag shoves me back to Snow the moment I exit. "Get this ugly whore out of my sight."<p>

"Is there a problem?" he asks coldly.

"It's not the goods," he spits. "It's the _packaging_." Hair matted with sick and wine, wet dress still dripping from where I scrubbed and scrubbed. Not to mention my _face. _

Snow gazes over me, emotionless. "You can't play this Game forever, Petra."

I don't have to. Just long enough until Training starts tomorrow. But somehow he sees, even though I duck my head. Somehow the bastard just _knows_ what I'm thinking. _Baba yaga_ Angelovna? President Snow's the real _vedmak_.

"Don't think you've escaped this," Snow escorts me away, his hand on my arm raising gooseflesh. "Now I must introduce you to Senator Aquila, one of the wealthiest men in Panem. If he offers, do try the champagne." Snow instructs me as we stroll past another lush garden bursting with pavilions and dancers in the shadow of that smoking crosslight. Here on the perimeter, the stench of roasting meat is stronger. We must be near the kitchens. "It's a pre-war vintage from his private collection."

"Antebellum," I mutter under my breath.

"You remember?" Snow asks, seemingly surprised. "Good. And what else do you remember, Petra?"

"I will." _I won't_.

"Louder." He orders.

"I will." I repeat, staring at my bare feet and dripping hem. _I won't_.

"Again."

_I won't_. I chew my tongue. "I will."

His plain face stretches into a forced, fixed smile. "Petra, you must do better than that. _Convince me_."

I drag my feet. Stop. I'm done with his little Game. Both of them. He hasn't hurt me yet, and I've been far from obedient. You can wave a gun all you want at the damned thieves, but until you shoot the threat is meaningless. And you'll just keep losing sheep. "Damnit, you want the truth? Do you?" I insist. "I will bite, kick, claw, _kill_ any man you send my way. I don't give a fuck who he is."

President Snow doesn't blink. "We shall see, Petra Angelovna. We shall see."

* * *

><p>Another tent. Nothing like Sapeans'. It's white silk, lined with life-size sculptures of women and animals in stones I don't even recognize, and worse, ten slowly dancing Avox girls doing—<p>

My face flushes red and I look away. As if Tasha and Mason weren't bad enough already.

"Ah, the _elusive_ Miss Angelov," Aquila smirks, rising and offering me a seat. He knows, I realize. Simple tricks, Klerkov's game, won't work with him. "Forgive me for not offering refreshment. Is the entertainment to your liking?" He gestures to the girls with humorless nod. "If not, I have several available males also at my disposal if that would be more to your taste."

He did this just to make me uncomfortable. Does he know about Tasha? Mason? …Klerkov? _Look at what the Cat dragged in_, Mason's words ring in my ears. Is this a threat?

"Well?" Aquila asks as he seats me. "What is your answer?"

"It's fine."

The corner of his smile widens. "You're sure? You don't find it…distracting? Bothersome? _Grotesque?_"

I try not to flush. Try not to look. "I said it's fine."

"As you will, Miss Angelov, as you will," he chuckles, reclining in turn. "Or would you prefer 'the Butcher'?"

"Angelov_na_," I correct instead. "Angelov is my father."

"Good Games, girl," he scoffs. "Don't you barbarians from 6 even share last names?"

I shrug, feeling as naked as those dancers in this ridiculously thin, stained, wet gown. "-vna for girls. –vitch for boys."

"And how does one tell the difference?" He mocks, nodding to my chest. "As delighted as I am to see you, I must admit I preferred your earlier evening attire."

"You mean the armor that couldn't protect anyone and the shoes that no one could walk in?" I return, shivering.

"Ah, so you _do_ understand the suit's intrinsic irony, how clever of you. No, my dear Miss Angelovna, I was referring to a concept even simpler than that. It made you so much more…"

"Appealing?" I sneer.

His leering grin widens. He nods with my understanding. "Fuckable."

"Then don't fuck me." I state simply. "Take your money and pay for a good looking whore. Leave me alone."

"Ah, but you're wrong. Why should I pay for a whore when I can pay for a Stylist? Re-create the image? And besides, Butcher," he tips his glass to me, "any man can pay for a whore. I'm not buying you for the pleasure of fucking you…I'm buying you because there are many, many other men who want to, are willing to, and I can outbid them all."

Suddenly I understand. And it's all so absurd I can't help but snort."So that's what this is about. All of this. You don't want us. Not really. It's just power and appearances."

"Life is power and appearances, Butcher," Aquila corrects me boredly. "Why should this be an exception?"

"If life is so much about appearances, let me ask you. Do I _look _like a whore?" At the moment, or ever.

"But you _are _a whore, Butcher, despite evidences to the contrary," he explains. "All women are whores. They trade security, status, jewelry, money, all for that little bit between their legs. So the question has never been whether you were a whore…it's simply a matter of your _price._"

_Ch'yort._ "There is no price," I keep the quaver from my voice. "You might buy me from Snow, but I'm not for sale."

"Name a price. Any price. You'll find I am good for it," he assures me. "Gold. Jewelry. Furs...Weapons. Medicine. _Food._ In short, your life."

I'm Petra Angelovna, and I want to live. Would it really be all that bad? Trade one night for my life?…_but what kind of life it's not worth it's not worth it for a life like that!_ I screamed at Klerkov only hours ago. It wouldn't be one night. One time. It'd be every day. Every night. Forever. My Mentor fucks so many women not because he's a drunken _slovoc_, but because the Capitol _makes_ him. "I have a good stylist," I lie instead. "I can do fine on my own."

"Are you certain? If you don't name a price, I shall have to. _Lack _of Weapons. Medicine. Food…" his voice trails off.

He's baiting me, I realize, searching for what I fear. "Nothing."

"There's always something, or _someone_, Butcher. So you're either lying, or I haven't dug deep enough yet." Senator Aquila takes another sip of wine, sitting up to study me intently. "Tell me, how is your mother? I hear her health is frail."

I can't help but smile. "You don't know shit about me if you try to get to me through my mother."

"I could make her better."

Better? Her apathy began with the loss of her children, to where she couldn't bear to look at me lest she be reminded of the others who were missing. And not all the riches, all the medicines, all the power of even the Capitol can ever bring them back. "Why? So she can live in squalor and starvation, when men like you pay a year's tessara for the entire District just to fuck Tributes? Let her die. Everything does." I was a child. A girl of six. Cruelty I could have handled, but not this nothingness. I thought she'd rather I died. Rather I died and her other children lived. They were corpses and I was a living girl, and she loved them more than me.

He nods. Tips his glass and savors another swallow of wine. "And your father?"

I don't doubt he loved me. Loves me. He taught me his trade, his livelihood. He sent me to school, sent me to _Selo_ whenever he could to better myself…and he taught me the true price of living, starting with the only pet I ever had. After my sisters died, Lily was my only comfort, and still he didn't spare her. "Tonight wasn't the first time I've tangled with a whip. I have scars from my father. Where he beat me." Beating is common in 6. It wasn't anger, wasn't abuse, it was duty. Duty drove him. And I was always an errant child. "Do you really think that will work?"

"No, my dear Butcher, I don't believe it will," he intones after a moment's pause. "But I am a more practiced liar than you. You're bluffing—no, don't deny it. Half truth, half lie. The spirit of your words is true…but they are not. It's not that you don't care for their welfare, it's that you've always expected to outlive them. Thought that death would have been a mercy…"

"You're amongst liars now," Snow said, "and every one of us is better than you." I shudder.

"You would honestly let me kill them, I don't doubt," Aquila continues. "After all, what are parents for except to protect their child? No, not that's not it…it's something darker. Something _more_," his voice trails off lowly. "Perhaps you've thought of killing them yourself?"

I feel so small, so wretched inside. _Only once,_ I tell them. _It was only once. And that was long ago._

"Yes." The admission falls heavy from my lips.

"The truth?" He asks, "You don't bother to deny it? Don't think you can best me in a lie, Butcher? Not ashamed to own it, that you've thought of killing your own family? That you've thought of killing _yourself_?"

_Only once_, I whisper. _Only once_.

"Silence?" He mocks. "Still afraid to lie, then? Or is it this time you're afraid of the truth?"

I have no answer.

"Now that's interesting. Very interesting. Now I truly am intrigued. Not family, then. Fascinating." He leans forward to study me, hand under his chin. It's all a Game to him. My life, my family's lives…every twisted, dark, shameful thing, it's all just a sick game. And he gets off on it. "You're how old? Eighteen? But still a virgin from your medical report—don't act so surprised, of course I've read it. There must be someone, somewhere, some man you've dreamt of, fantasized of, someone who passed you over for a woman with bigger tits, wider hips and a less appalling face. Or perhaps a woman? No?" he laughs, seeing the look of revulsion on my face. "But someone you foolishly love or loved."

Dmitri Berezoski, for two hours one afternoon four years ago before I kicked his balls in. It hardly counts. If Aquila wants to torture him, he's welcome, then _neither _of them will get to fuck me. "No one," I tell him. "There's no one."

"A lie. How sad, my dear. You honestly thought you were telling the truth. But to me, or to yourself?" He grows stern. "There is _someone,_ Butcher. There always is. It matters not. I will find them, and when I do you will come to me and beg me take you instead. So why wait? Why go through all that pain and loss?" He runs a hand up my leg. "Let me come to you now, and avoid it."

I've run out of arguments. So has he. But if my father taught me one thing, it's never to approach a cornered animal. Even the most kindly creatures can turn vicious when trapped. Aquila never had that lesson. I play the _tuz._

I stand. Draw that butterknife I flung at Sheen not an hour ago. _"_Make a move towards me and I'll cut your throat," I snarl. "This knife might not be sharp but I could still kill you with it."

But Aquila only chuckles. His Peacekeepers don't even move.

"My dear Butcher, in public like this?" He laughs. "Come, come, your threats are meaningless."

"Yes, in public like this," I keep that knife between us. "I killed Capitol citizens in broad daylight this morning and it was broadcast on your televisions. Now I'm a hero and a Hunger Games favorite."

He claps. Three times. "Bravo, Butcher. Bravo," he bows his head in admiration. "You're bluffing, yes. But oh-so-clever. God, I love it when they do that. It's been a long, long while since anyone has dared put up a fight. Do you know, I find I miss it."

They. Whores. Victors. flick my wrist. Turn the knife over and over in my fingers, eyes searching for the best spot to sink it. "Am I?"

Right neck. Down behind the rib and the collar-bone. He'd bleed out in seconds.

"Acquiese or decline, I care not," Senator Aquila dismisses me lazily. "I am not like Coriolanus, I prefer my prey cooperative_._"

I don't believe him. Don't dare lower my hand. "So I'm free to go?"

He reaches for his wine. "If that is what you truly wish."

I nod. "It is."

"Then go," he bows his head gracefully. "And may the odds be ever in your favor, Butcher."

I turn to go, still wary, but Aquila calls me back. "…Although should you decide not to accept my proposal, I dare say I have a colleague who might be _interested_ in your little comrade, Mr. Malcovitch_."_

* * *

><p><strong>AN: If it appears I'm starting to develop the trend of girl-power vs. all-sexist-male society (think Holly Short vs. LEPrecon), it's not my intent. <strong>Petra, and all the other females in this fic have character flaws as well. <strong>I hope to portray the main characters in this story as very rounded and complex, and in the upcoming chapters there will be more screen-time for several of the key male players.  
><strong>


	44. The Trap

**The Trap**

* * *

><p>"<em>Slovoc!<em>" I shriek. "_He's just a kid!"_

"There is always _someone_," Aquila leers, standing and towering over me. "Chose, Petra Angelovna. Yourself, or the boy. Everything has its price. Now I know _yours_."

"Fuck you! He's just a kid!"

"Yet there is a market for such a thing," he informs me coldly. "All desires can be accommodated, for the right price."

Tasha tried to warn me. Tried to tell me how provocative that Outfit was. She said beautiful women were forced to be seen…she never said a thing about _kids. _Fuck. Beautiful, timid little Malcovitch. _Fuck._ I won't let him suffer. Won't let him become this monster's you slaughter a bull, you have to be quick. The slightest hesitation, the slightest deviation and he'll rear his head and catch you with his horns or trample you underfoot. Even dying he's dangerous due to his bulk—if he falls on you, you'll suffocate. His Peacekeepers are slow. For show. Not a one of them—not even Senator Aquila—expects anyone to be stupid enough to attack him.

I am.

One hand. That's all it takes. One hand and all my weight up underneath his ribs and a bubble of blood and Senator Aquila staggers back, staggers back a look of utmost horror on his face—

The dancers have ceased. His Peacekeepers charge forward. "You—!" He croaks, stumbling against the table.

"It's just a lung, _pizda!_" I shout. "It's not fatal! But if you or anyone else make a threat against Malcovitch I swear to God I'll kill you. _Am I bluffing now?_" I shove the table over, glasses splintering. "_Am I?_"

"You imbecile, you think you're untouchable?" He rasps from his knees, catching hold of my hem. "I'll cut you off, no Sponsors, no aid-"

But he's only mortal. Only flesh, bone and blood. There's hundreds of eyes on us, all watching, all waiting. I'm going to the Hunger Games in two days, and he can't frighten me. I kick him. Hard.

"You do that," I seethe. "You tell everyone else to do the same. Power and appearances? There's not a man in this room right now who has any doubts I'll win the Hunger Games. I just made a _hundred_ Sponsors, and there's nothing you can do to stop them. And I'll win. I'll kill all those children and when I'm done, I'll kill you. You wanted me? Wanted them to know you were the one who had me?" I gesture around to the frightened, cowering Avox, the faceless Peacekeepers, and the silent party guests, still as stone. "There they are," I spit in his face. "Consider yourself thoroughly fucked."

They're all watching now. I make a statement. "Any of you rich fucks still brave enough to want me in bed? In case you haven't noticed, 6 girls like it rough." Then I walk. Head up. Shoulders back. I walk. No one moves to stop me. They shrink back, afraid.

A horrified face, paler even than it was in the Arena. "Angelovna," FInnick Odair whispers. "What did you do?"

"He deserved it," I tell him, shaking in rage. "Every bit. They all do." All of them.

But Finnick Odair isn't the only one. "That was a Senator," Snow appraises me coldly.

He sold me. Would have sold Malcovitch. He deserves the same. "I didn't vote for him," I return. Odair's tanned skin blanches grey.

"I thought you were to inform her on protocol?" Snow asks, ignoring me.

"I was, I did!" District 4's champion falls to his knees. "I'll fix this, I promise! Just don't hurt her," he pleads. "Please—"

_What—?_

"I never have," Snow returns. "And never will, so long as you keep your word."

"You know I will." He chokes.

"Then we have nothing more to discuss."

"Annie-" he moans.

Annie? Annie _Cresta_? Is Finnick fucking his own Tribute—?

"Will be produced once the Games are over," Snow dismisses him. "See to your _duties_. And see to it I need not remind you again."

…no, no it's worse than that, I realize. Finnick Odair is fucking whoever Snow tells him to. To _spare_ her. Protect her. He stands, half-dressed and sobbing, eyes red-rimmed and awash with tears. A Senator puts a hand in his hair, pulls him close and kisses them away. A man kissing a man. It goes through me like a jolt. Finnick's boisterous reputation isn't a reputation at all: it's a _lie._ He's more trapped than I am. Whoever his Annie is, I find myself hoping she isn't hurt on account of me.

_Pizda, Petra!_ My mind is reeling. _What have you done?_

A rustle behind us. The Senator struggles to stand. "I want her," Aquila spits to his Peacekeepers, "in _chains_. And then I fuck you bloody, Butcher." He leers, bloody spittle punctuating every word. "In every orifice. And if you're very, _very_ lucky, I won't let my staff do the same."

President Snow eyes him coolly. "I think not."

"It's too late for that, Coriolanus." Aquila snarls, clutching the metal gaping from his chest. "You offered. I accepted. The deal is done."

For nearly a minute they stare, each incensed. My life, my body hangs in the balance. And I am not forgotten. "Come, Petra." Snow commands me. "I have something to show you. And bring him," he orders Aquila's Peacekeepers curtly. "I won't have my guests assaulted under my own roof."

The Senator pales, blood frothing from his lips. "You can't-"

"Can't I?" he asks dangerously. "Can't is a very trying word. And I warn you, Aquila, not to try my patience."

From his knees Aquila defies him. "You think you can intimidate me?" he hisses. "Everyone here knows you wouldn't. Not during an election year. You need me, need my support-"

"Intimidate?" Snow counters, countenance stern. "I asked you to frighten in intractable teenager. Instead you made me look like a fool."

Power and appearances. Power and appearances. The orchestra has gone silent, all the dancers ceased to spin, every eye, every ear in Panem watching, waiting. It's a dangerous game they're playing, and I don't know who will win. Don't know who _should._ Either way, I'm fucked.

Aquila moves first. "You wouldn't. You need me to win, Coriolanus. You're nothing without me."

"Wouldn't I?" Snow repeats thoughtfully. "I suppose not. You're correct. Such a move would be seen as too political if I were involved…and it _is _an election year." He sneers. "Very well," Snow claps his hands. "Take him to the Game Enforcers."

The hushed hall grows cold. I shudder.

"Tell them he abducted and assaulted a Tribute. The poor girl had to fend for her virginity with a _knife. _It's lucky for her I was able to intervene." Snow never raises his voice, but all hear him. "Say in light of the heinous, vile nature of these crimes the State has now seized his assets and stripped his titles, possessions, and pensions. Tell them I take it as personal insult such an act was performed under my own roof…and see to it they bring him to justice."

"No!" Aquila rasps as his own men drag him away. "You can't do this to me,_ you can't do this to ME-!_"

The doors shut, and the orchestra resumes its tune.

"Come, Petra." Snow orders me. "It appears I bore you with subtleties. Allow me to demonstrate that Resistance is futile."


	45. The Execution

**The Execution**

* * *

><p>We're on the outer rim. Climbing up. "Where are you taking me?"<p>

"All in due time, Petra," Snow responds. "All in due time."

Up above them now. The party trickles on underneath us, bright colors melting into a dizzy display. _Pizda_. I press tighter against the granite wall. I don't fear heights, but Snow…

…he still needs a Tribute. There's twenty-four of you, _durak_. He can hurt you. Rape you. But he can't kill you. Not yet. _Not yet_, my heart beat echoes, _not yet, not yet, not yet. _

Ahead of me, Snow rounds the last stair, lost. "Come, Petra." I hear him say. I grip the railing. Just in case. Eight more steps. They feel steeper than the rest. At the last, he offers his hand.

I take it.

The wind is whipping, pulls my nightdress against my legs tight as a boy's trousers. But I'm Petra Angelovna of District 6. I have known worse cold. Tears pour, blinded by breeze and smoke alike. I blink. Squint in the blinding torchlight.

"_N'yet!_" I stumble into him. My feet, my heart have turned to ash.

He rights me. "I told you, Petra Angelovna, Resistance is futile."

"You're burning them!" That smell, that meat—

"Yes, Petra," Snow states. "I am."

"Wh-why?" I stammer.

He remains impassive. "The answer is simple, Petra Angelovna. Because I can. "We walk on. More crosses, more groans and sobs of bloodied men. Nailed by hands and feet to rough wood. I watch as Peacekeepers douse them in petrol. I don't dare be sick. "Tell me, do you recognize them?" Snow asks disinterestedly, eying the squirming men as though a painting.

_Twenty-four. He needs twenty-four. Answer him, damnit!_ "Sh-should I?"

"They're your Resistance," he continues. "Your rescuers. Shouldn't you thank them?"

I'm dizzy. Can't catch my breath. "Why am I here?"

"You are here, my dear Petra, to watch," Snow informs me. "You might be the Butcher, but I am the Executioner. This is how one slaughters a _man_."

His skin is shiny, slick with petrol. Blood oozes from his hands, his feet, head hung in resignation. Outstretched arm, small flame, then flicks—

A whoosh. A roar. A shriek. I turn my head as fire engulfs him.

Firm grip on my chin, forcing me back. "You will watch this." I raise my eyes.

His flesh melts. The screaming stops. It's just fire, fire and bones. Fire and bones and searing meat. I am Petra Angelovna, the Butcher's daughter, and this is a sack of burning meat, nothing more. It's only meat. It's nothing I haven't seen before.

I swallow, throat dry. "How long do I have to look?"

President Snow chuckles lowly, releasing me in our understanding. "How long?" He whispers. "_As long as it amuses me_."

* * *

><p>It isn't enough. Burning them alive isn't enough. They have to suffer first. One by one he drags their families forward, cringing in front of the rifles of Peacekeepers. One by one they are offered a choice: themselves, or their families. Children scream, women weep, elderly parents sob, arms outstretched. From those crosses they are given a final choice: to burn to death, or watch their family. They all choose the nobler route.<p>

…all but one.

The Peacekeepers wrench the nails from his hands, his feet. He is dragged forward, forced to stand, to crawl on bloodied limbs. "You know what must be done," Snow states. "Do it."

He douses them with petrol, the woman, his son, their squalling baby. She doesn't fight back, only shrieks _please, please, please-!_ His clumsy hands can't flick the torch well, but the air is saturated. His aim doesn't matter. He crawls to Snow, kisses his hands as his family burns behind him flames licking arms flailing, night torn with screeching. I am Petra Stone-heart. I must watch. Snow's words: _I will. _

…he was right after all. I did need them.

He leaves a blood-smeared trail across the glutted stone. "Your Excellency-" the traitor sobs.

"You have done well," Snow returns coldly. "See to it he receives proper medical care," he instructs the Peacekeepers. Wordlessly, they obey.

He's gone, but there's a small bundle of blackened flesh and rags still smoking. I feel the heat sear my skin, sweat pouring. I don't dare move. Don't dare be noticed. I'm Petra Angelovna. I want to live.

But I am not Xavier Malcovitch. I am not invisible. "Do you understand?" President Snow asks me. "Do you understand what just happened here, Petra?"

I shake my head. "He's a coward," I whisper. "A _traitor._ Why let him live?"

"I can't kill all my enemies," he chuckles. "Soon there would be no one left. Besides, his actions are admirable. Self-preservation before aught else…the State can use a man like him."

I shudder. "He valued his life more than his own family."

"And you wouldn't do the same?" He chides me gently, taking my hands. "The man is a coward, not a patriot. But so long as loyalty to his country continues his existence he will obey unswervingly, unfailingly. I have a man now who will not falter to execute women, children if necessary; a man willing to complete whatever unsavory task I require, and yet not psychotic, not bloodthirsty, not a _threat_. The co-existence of such qualities is rare, Petra Angelovna," he smiles sickeningly. "Even amongst Victors. Rare, and useful."

Abruptly he turns away. "Execute them."

Rifles fire. Their families fall. The last thing their eyes will see before burning is the corpses of their loved ones.

I've killed Capitol citizens. Made Snow look like a fool. I was away in the Capitol. A Tribute for the Hunger Games. They're so far away now, so long ago, I'd forgotten about my _family._ Snow delights in power and I was foolish enough to think that Victor Ivan Klerkov could thwart him. Now Coriolanus Snow is after me. After my family…and my dead sisters will be the lucky ones.

He senses my thoughts. "Have no fear, Petra Anglovna. Your parents are safe. For now."

"If you mean to kill them, do it before the Games," I tell him dully. "Not after." _Don't let them see me become like you._

"Kill them?" His face reveals nothing. "Your family is all you have left, Petra Angelovna. The final option. Killing them would free you from any obligations to obey. They are not to be harmed…_yet," _he emphasizes. "That is a lesson Miss Mason has taught me well. And it may be I have some other use for them."

Useful. Rare and useful. Even amongst Victors. He used Annie Cresta to control Finnick, and he'll use my mother and father to control me. Snow is not Senator Aquilla. Not trying to impress me with his riches and political sway. President Snow has power, true and absolute power, and I cannot lie to him.

"Why are you doing this?" I finally ask, nodding to the crosses, the corpses, the still smoking children. "Why show me this? It's like you're _trying_ to instigate a rebellion."

His face remains calm. "The answer, Petra Angelovna, is because I can. Why the Hunger Games when we could simply execute the Tributes? Because people need something to hope for, to believe in. They hope for their own children not to be chosen, yet they hope for the Victor to return to their District with riches and glory because they believe in the Hunger Games. Believe in Victors. Believe that desiring for one child to live by killing others somehow doesn't make them as bad as the Capitol they so despise," he continues gravely. "I could quash the Resistance in one fell swoop if I so desired…but what would that accomplish? I would appear totalitarian. Instead, I offer the illusion of liberty, and it fools the less fanatic into complacency. So yes, Petra Angelovna, it is in my power to quash the Rebellion completely, this very night. But I prefer to let them play. Let the idiots play, and see how far they get. Every so often they surprise me. When one controls the world, there are few rarer pleasures than that of the unknown."

"You're sick." I finally choke.

"No, Petra Angelovna," he corrects me. "Do my words sound like those of a madman?"

My throat grows hot and raw. "You're still sick."

"I assure you I am sane," he counters sternly. "Every execution I order is calculated. I take no joy in wasting life."

"You just killed a baby," I argue. "Killed all those people-"

"The families of traitors. I executed fathers, husbands, sons. If their families had been allowed to live their devotion to the Rebellion would have only grown stronger. They would have considered their loved ones martyrs. Ammunition the Rebels cannot be afforded. Instead I have sent a message, and those wavering in their loyalties to me will no longer question," he explains terribly. Just like my father butchering lambs. Butchering Lilly. I blanch.

"So ask me not to," Snow shrugs, looking up at the remaining men awaiting immolation. "Beg me to spare their lives."

My throat is so swollen, it takes me nearly a minute to answer. "No."

"Pardon?"

"No." I repeat.

"Not for anyone?" he asks, amused.

"Not for _you_."

He gives the order. The flames are brought. But the crucified men raise their heads at my reply, and they stare. Not in anger. Not with blame…but _Gratitude._

_I didn't ask you to save me,_ I tell the Peacekeepers and Game Enforcers who tried to liberate me only hours ago. _I didn't want you to save me, I didn't ask you to die for meit'snotmyfault, it'snotmyfault, please, please, it's not my fault I just wanted to live…_

I hold their gaze until the end. Don't let tears flow or guilt show. Snow is right: they had to die. I gave them the dignity to die as men.


	46. The Traitor

**The Traitor**

* * *

><p>But it isn't over. Not yet. I feel something slip in the front of my gown before my beating heart. The card. Heavensby's card. It falls to the gritty stone without a sound.<p>

_Pizda. _

Do I cover it up? Let it lie? Will even so much as moving attract attention-?

I rest one bare foot over it, feel the grain of sand and the prickle of stone. It soaks into the blood of those fallen families and clings to my skin.

But Snow sees. He always sees.

A Peacekeeper hands him the blood-drenched card. Again his features remain expressionless. "I know this man," Snow intones. "He is at the gala. Send for him."

He eyes me coldly. "Who gave you this?"

"I found it." I lie.

"And kept it," he corrects me. "How very considerate of you, Petra. Doubtless you meant to return it to its rightful owner. I will see you have the chance to do so. Tell me, Petra Angelovna, have you not learned enough?" He asks acridly. "Have you not seen enough? You are either unintelligent or stubborn, Petra Angelovna, and it is unfortunate. Neither will fare you well."

I shiver. Huddle closer to the cross-light for warmth. It's only bones. Bones and meat. I'm the butcher's daughter, and a body, once dead, can't frighten me.

* * *

><p>Heavensby is brought, puffing and panting, tripping the last few stairs nearly on hands and knees in their haste. His pudgy face flaps as he gasps for breath. "In a moment, your Excellency, I beg you, a moment, it's the sweets, they say, too many sweets—"<p>

He is disgusting, but I pity him. He meant to help me, and I betrayed him.

"Heavensby, I'm disappointed," Snow returns coldly.

"Disappointed?" Heavensby seems shocked. "In what?"

"You." Snow reveals the card. "This rebel was caught with it. What have you to say?"

Plutarch Heavensby turns a mottled grey. "I, your Excellency-"

"Because this looks like a plot, Plutarch," Snow interrupts him. "A plot to aid a potential Victor seeking to overthrow this government-"

"I, please, your Excellency, I have hundreds, thousands of those cards!" He races desperately, jowls flapping with every quiver of his jaws. "She, the girl, she could have picked it up anywhere, anytime, stolen it-"

"And when would she have stolen it," Snow asks dryly. "And from whom? Do tell, Plutarch. Was it back in her District, or did you notice this theft tonight at this gathering?"

He is caught. His sweat pours, a sheen as slick as petrol. "I, I gave the girl the card," He finally admits. "Tonight."

"Go on," Snow prods him.

"I meant nothing, Excellency!" Heavensby wails. "Nothing!"

"And yet I find you plotting with the Rebellion."

"_Rebellion?_" Plutarch Heavensby pales. "No, I-"

"I don't abide liars, Plutarch," Snow reminds him harshly. "Choose your next words carefully."

With that he begins to sob, every hitch of his belly causing his fringe to jingle. "I, I was merely asked to look out for the girl! Gain her trust! That was all, it seemed _harmless-_"

Snow regards him with contempt. "And why would you do such a thing?"

"I, this is, this is humiliating, Excellency," Heavensby cringes, wringing his fat hands earnestly. "I have a problem. With money. I owned a man a great deal, an unforgiving man, Excellency, and I, borrowed from the Games Expense account to repay the debt-"

So he never was a hero, then. Just a coward. Always a coward. He never meant to help me, just himself. I have no more pity. Just disgust.

"Stole," Snow says. "You stole."

"Yes!" Heavensby cries. "I stole! It was discovered, and I was told to comply with their wishes, their simple, harmless wishes, and it would be forgotten-"

"Such deeds are never forgotten," Snow interrupts him. "You would have been approached again."

"P-p-please, Excellency!" He cries. "I meant nothing, n-nothing-"

"The request should have been reported. Immediately," Snow cuts across him harshly. "These are dangerous times."

"I, I, report?" the fat man questions timidly. "Excellency, how could I-?"

"Admit to being a thief rather than a traitor?" Snow continues lightly.

"I am a thief!" Heavensby falls to his knees before him, nose streaming with snot. "A miserable, despicable thief! Yes, yes I admit it. A thief. A thief. A thief not a traitor, never a traitor, please, please-"

"Please?" Snow sneers at the man now clutching his robes. "A thief is still a thief, Plutarch, and he will steal again."

"No, your Excellency," he moans. "Never, never again, no-"

Snow draws back, pulls his hem from those pudgy, grasping fingers. "And a man who has been blackmailed once can be blackmailed twice. Tell me," he turns to the nearest helmeted Peacekeepers. "What is the sentence for theft and treason?"

Wordlessly their rifles are raised. I turn back to the flames, back the Capitol's winding streets and sleepless night of traffic and trains zipping brilliant lines throughout the dark. Plutarch Heavensby is a coward, and was never my friend. I don't have to watch this.

* * *

><p>"EXCELLENCY, PLEASE—!"<p>

I tense, shoulders aching, but no shots are fired. Finally I turn.

Snow has raised one hand. "Thank you, Excellency," Heavensby blubbers. "Oh, _thank you_-"

"I have not countermanded your execution, Plutarch. Merely postphoned it," Snow informs him coldly. "Tell me this: why should I spare you?"

"I, I am an Assistant Gamemaker," Heavensby stammers, face spangled with tears. "I have done great service for this country-"

"You have stolen from her, lied to her, kept secrets from her," Snow reiterates. "Yet you speak now of service? Your patriotism is moving, Plutarch. But it will not save you."

He falls to his face, grovels on the blood-soaked stones. "I have nothing, nothing more to hide, your Excellency-"

Snow raises an eyebrow in mockery. "Truly?"

"Truly!"

"Very well, then," Snow orders briskly. "Take this man away. See to it he returns safely home."

Heavensby gapes like a fish, drowning in air. "I, I, I don't understand."

"Come, Plutarch," Snow offers a hand gently. "You must be smarter than this. The crime will go unreported and unsolved. No one but you or I will know the truth of it," he explains with long-suffering patience. "You will continue to do simple, harmless favors for these fools as they request, and you will report to me. But know this: the day will come when I ask of you a favor, a _harmless_, _simple favor_, and you will see to it that it is done."

He grasps Snow's hand between his own and smears it with trails of saliva and snot. "Yes, your Excellency," he mutters between kisses. "Thank you, your Excellency-"

"Enough." Snow orders, withdrawing his hand. The Peacekeepers drag him away.

He's become Snow's lackey, same as the other. Converted, not killed. He'll remember Snow as the man who saved his life, not the one who ordered his execution. I find him sickening. "I thought I could trust you," I accuse him bitterly.

"So did I, dear girl," Plutarch Heavensby whispers, "so did I."


	47. Chapter 47

**The Confession**

* * *

><p>"Let that be a lesson, Petra," President Snow joins me in my vigil before that smoking corpse on a cross. "I am not mad. I do not waste life. I can be…<em>merciful,<em> when the situation calls for it."

"When it's convenient for you, you mean," I return, still gazing out over that terrible expanse. The Capitol, it's enormous. Stretches for miles. As far as I can see, the never-ending lines of light expand into the darkness and devour it.

"Situational mercy is still mercy," Snow corrects me. "And men are never merciful when there is no benefit to be gained. No one is merciful in the face of endangerment, else they are only fools."

I turn to face him. "At least they're not killers."

"No, Petra," Snow corrects me. "They're worse than killers. I plan efficient executions, kill only when necessary, and in dong so I minimize collateral damage. Your Resistance, your Libertas…all those passive-resistance guerrilla fighters who fancy themselves heroes, martyrs and in the moral high ground who on occasional whims of mercy spare the lives of their foes without warrant threaten each and every citizen of Panem. Understand they do so at terrible cost, with little or nothing gained."

"At least they try," I insist.

"Is that what you think?" Snow remands harshly. "Better to play at morality, better to wantonly sacrifice innocent lives in the name of a supposedly "greater" cause than create a state of peace and civility? Then you are a fool, Petra Angelovna. I had hoped better of you."

"Peace and civility?" I retort. "Is that what you call life in the Districts? Because I've lived there, Snow, and there's nothing _peaceful_ or _civil_ about it!"

"You are correct, Petra Angelovna."

"_What?_" I ask, startled.

"The Districts…it is unfortunate about the Districts," his brow furrows. "But a situation without a resolution. Nothing can be done-"

"You could try!" I pound a fist against the wood as crisp flesh and charred bone fall. "I've seen families starve, watched children die—!"

"Do not interrupt," he warns me sternly. "I said nothing can be done _quickly._ You have seen the Capitol, Petra Angelovna, so tell me, do you find its Citizens likely to accept the idea of equality with the Districts? Do you think them likely to embrace higher premiums on petrol and produce? Do you think during election year and budgeting that thought is spared to humanitarian aid or social reform?"

I blink, both shocked and incensed. "Don't pretend to hate it, Snow. You've worked for years to become this."

"The corrupt leader of a corrupt regime for a corrupt populace?" He returns coolly. "Yes, Petra Angelovna, I have. I have lied and killed, manipulated and calculated my way to this position. But I have begun reform-"

Tesserae has increased. The Games more sensationalized. District 6 shuddered in the grasp of consumption and starvation during the White Winter and the only Capitol aid we received was flame-throwers to cremate our dead. "_Liar._" I accuse him.

The word seems small, empty in the chill night air, but dangerous. And deadly. Yet his countenance is as inscrutable as ever. "I am not a liar, Petra Angelovna. Tell me, during this evening, have I ever once been anything less than honest with you?"

I chew my tongue.

"Answer me," he demands.

"No," I finally whisper, face hot.

"You would do well to remember it. I have begun reform. Have wrested power from the corrupt corporations, the rich, the lobbyists and the intrigues of the Senate, and consolidated it under the Executive branch."

Those words are weighty, like that _antebellum_…but I don't understand their significance. "I don't understand."

"I have become President, but only while working to make the Presidency all-powerful. I have by-passed the assemblies and the congresses and the politics and the intrigue in order to achieve. One man may do what thousands may not. My word is now law, passed when spoken, and deadly to disobey."

"You haven't stopped the Games. You've made them worse. Celebrated." I argue. "So don't pretend to be a hero."

"The Games must continue," Snow informs me icily. "The Games are paramount. I have done what I have done to protect Panem's future-"

Preserving our past. Protecting our future. I snort. "You've watched your own propaganda too much."

"Propaganda?" Snow asks lightly. "Is that what you make of it?"

"Yes."

"Then you are not unintelligent after all. Not one in a hundred is so wise. Not one in a thousand so bold. You could be useful to me, Petra Angelovna," he explains. "Useful, or a threat. The choice is yours. All I have done this evening is to advise you to choose wisely. But tell, me, Petra, what is the propaganda for?"

"To make the Games look good." So we forget it's the Capitol killing our children for the sake of sport, nothing more.

"Perhaps. But what else?" he presses. "Why are so many Vids broadcasted to you, not just the Games?"

"The _Adverts?_" I ask, puzzled. "Is that what you mean?"

"The excess," Snow says. "Both in the Districts and the Capitol alike. Why, Petra Angelovna? Why are the Hunger Games, the entertainment so important? Why do they permeate our media, saturate the Vids with mindless consumerism?"

"I…I don't know," I stammer honestly.

But my honesty isn't good enough. "Think," he commands.

"It's a distraction," I finally decide.

"A distraction?" He cocks his head with an air of satisfaction. "From what?"

"I…I don't know."

"Few do. Live through the Hunger Games, Petra Angelovna, and we may talk more. Choose to be useful, and I will share a President's secret with you. I will tell you the truth about Panem, the answers to the questions that no one thinks—that no one _dares_—to ask. I will share why District 2 can continue producing Peacekeeper uniforms year after year after _year _and still turn a profit…" he trails off lowly. "And I will tell you why I have become what I have become. Because someone must, else all is lost."

Questions? Secrets? Answers?

…_Uniforms?_ "Why are you telling me this?" I ask cautiously. "Any of it? Why not kill me and be done with it?"

"The Games are Paramount, Petra Angelovna. They must continue. I have set the wheels in motion, but sometimes they turn as they may. The Crowd is easily swayed and unpredictable, and this year they have chosen you. Now you know what is at stake: your life, your family, your District and possibly your Country. She stands on a knife's point, and only those willing to do as I have done might save her." He continues gravely. "Do the right thing. Obey me, and win. Panem will reward you with your life, with your family's lives. And, perhaps, given time, she may even thank you for your service."

"I know what _service_ you require," I sneer. "And I am no man's whore."

His lips play a rueful smile."Neither are you a Patriot, nor a fool, and this is why I have chosen to appeal to your intellect instead. Because you are intelligent, Petra Angelovna, and being so you must realize that neither are you in a position in which to negotiate."

I step away from him, look to that ledge and the dizzying height below. "I could do it, you know. I could fall and you couldn't stop me. They Games need twenty-four Tributes. They need _me_. Think about that."

"But you would not," Snow states simply. "You wish to live, despite the implications, despite the cost, you have planned to win the Hunger Games since the moment you were Reaped. Do not deny it, Petra Angelovna, your father affirmed it himself."

I feel a cold knife pass through my ribs. _Father!_ "You-"

"Tortured him?" Snow asks, amused at my fears. "No. I merely observed you from the Train Station via satellite. You asked why I made you watch? Why I spared that despicable, cowardly creature and that gibbering oaf Heavensby? I made you watch, Petra Angelovna, so you would understand that you are not alone, and there is no shame in capitulation, only reward."

I cross my arms, that ledge—like my empty threat—forgotten. He knew it was an empty bluff, knew I wouldn't jump…and so did I. I shake my head as my throat begins to tighten anew in resignation and disgust. I am Petra Angelovna, Victor of the 73rd Hunger Games and I am a selfish, wicked coward. "I won't be your puppet," I choke, shaking my head and clenching my face lest bitter tears fall unbidden. "And I am _not_ a whore."

"Petra, Petra," he chides me gently, placing a rose-scented hand on my face as I cringe away. "You will have little choice. Come, you have seen my mercy. Now observe what happens to those who refuse it."

* * *

><p><strong>AN: So why is Snow pulling the classic bad-guy confession? Shouldn't he be smarter than to reveal his plans like that? I have no idea. I think he thinks of himself as misunderstood. He might even think he's the protagonist. Hmm...the intention was to portray him in all his bastardly magnificence, not morph him into a slightly tragic genius who we all still really want to hate-his PR team must be pulling a heck of a job. Darn you for trying to become a mildly empathetic character!<strong>


	48. The Rebel

**The Rebel**

* * *

><p>Plutarch Heavensby wasn't the last.<p>

More Peacekeepers. Helmeted, anonymous, cold. A man kneels bound between them, face shrouded by a dripping black hood, awaiting execution. His wrists are bound, first from behind then wrenched over his head so that mask nearly drags the ground. Even from here I watch him work to draw breath.

"Release him," Snow sneers. Then his hand finds my chin. "You will watch this."

"I will." I just witnessed his mercy, grotesque as it was. Now I must see his vengeance. I am Petra Angelovna, the Butcher's daughter, and we're meat. Meat and bones. Nothing more.

Whirling knife. The bonds are cut. The man collapses forward on his face, a grunt of relief even though that thick shroud. His wrists twitch, he rubs them gasping, the circulation returning. Only once does he attempt to Peacekeepers see to that. He sprawls forward with their booted blows and lays still, panting. Finally satisfied, Snow bends and removes that hood.

I try not to blink. Not to cry out. Not to press fingers to my face. I am as still as Luccan Sheen when his name was called, not mine. Even bloodied I know that face—I know those eyes. And right now they are _blazing._

"Beg, Raelius. Plead for mercy," Snow goads him. "Entertain me, and perhaps I'll spare you."

But Marcus Raelius is silent. Blood trickles from his split lips.

Snow turns to me, plain face unreadable. "Perhaps you recognize him."

_Don't lie, don't lie, he can sense a lie! "_He's the medic," I say. "Just…the medic."

"Don't be naïve, Butcher," Snow snaps that hood to the stone. "He's also the mastermind behind the Resistance today."

_Maybe you should hire a squad of Peacekeepers to keep me safe, _my words suddenly chill me. Marcus is the Resistance. Marcus is fucking _Libertas._ It's little wonder he was wary: he already _had. _I was right: he isn't one of them. That's why he was so kind to us.

Then it hits me. Cold and fast. That bomb. The one that killed all those Capitol citizens…

No. No. Fuck, no. He was kind to me, to Holi, to Malcovitch—

_An incendiary device_, he told me sadly, then went back to treating the people he had executed. That bomb. All those people…forcing me to talk to Holi just so I would kill her. That was Marcus, too.

Klerkov. Tasha. Cinna. Snow. Heavensby…and now Marcus Raelius. Damn him. Each has an agenda. Each wants something from me. I'm alone in the valley of the shadow of the Capitol and I have no friends, only Captors. _Who the fuck are you? _I want to ask him. _Why did you try to kidnap me? To save me? To use me? _

Even now I know I will never have the chance to ask.

"He deserves to be applauded for his efforts in derailing the Games, _which very nearly succeeded,_" Snow hisses, circling him with unmasked contempt. "But fortunately, for your sake, Butcher, you had the presence of mind not to cooperate. A wise choice. It saved your life. Go on, then," He instructs the faceless Peacekeepers. "Applaud him."

Half-hearted clapping, jeers, insults, hand gestures I don't recognize but their meaning clear. The night becomes thick with smoke, catcalls, curses and whistles. Those closest undo their trousers and the air reeks of sudden piss, splashing the blood from his face. He never blinks. Never moves. Doesn't waver. In the face of their scorn he has eyes—_such eyes!—_for Snow alone.

_Blyad._ He's either brave or a reckless fool. Sadness eats me. I hate him. I admire him. I love him…and I'm about to watch him die. I can sense it. It's coming closer. And I don't think I can fucking stand it.

"You've been plotting, Raelius," Snow states, crouching to stare into his eyes. "I thought we'd discussed this."

"We did," Marcus returns simply. "And you're gravely mistaken if you believe my life worth more to me than my work."

"_Your_ life?" he asks, almost amusedly. "That's your sentence. But we're far past that now. I will also see you punished. Your brother or your uncle. Choose."

…_Cinna._ My heart heaves faster in my throat. For minutes they stare. Snow, impassive; Marcus, obstinate. But Snow is far from impressed by this show of stoicism. "Deign an answer, Raelius, and I'll kill them both."

I watch with bated breath. Seconds drag on. Snow grows impatient."Shall I tell my men to shoot?"

Those green eyes are finally lowered. His split lips press. "Cinna," he finally whispers.

"You want me to spare your _brother?_" Snow stands, for once this night unable to hide his true thoughts. "Your _brother_ over your co-conspirator?"

"No," Marcus shuts his eyes in resignation. "I want you to kill him."

"_NYET-!_" It escapes my lips unbidden. My fingers fly to my open mouth but the damage is done. Snow turns. He sees. _He knows._

Snow chuckles, gestures to the nearest Peacekeeper. "Tell your men to fire."

"No-!" I shout again, begging them both. "No, please, Cinna! _Marcus you can't-!"_ He's my brother he's my brother and _he sent him to his death_. "You're sick you're sick you're fucking sick!"

"Is it done?" Snow asks.

That anonymous helmet bows. "Yes, your Excellency."

"_Why would you do that!" _I demand, lunging forward as the captain grabs my wrists. I try to wrench, kick, twist, but his booted legs and armored groin protect him from my blows. The gloves are gripped, and I can't wrench away. I don't need to. I still have my lungs. He can't stop me screaming.

"_Why the fuck would you do that-!" _All the awe I once felt for Marcus Raelius is replaced with horror and disgust. "_Why? You fucking tell me why-!_"

"Petra, it is rude to interrupt. See that you don't," Snow says lightly. "If she interferes again, slap her. Hard." He instructs my captor. "Raelius, my condolences. It appears the Rebels have just murdered your Senator Uncle. All Panem will be in mourning, of course. It is a tragic loss."

I blink stupidly. _What?_

"But don't worry, Raelius. We've also caught the men responsible, and I vow to you they have been _punished_." He gestures to the still smoking crosses. For the first time Marcus notices them…but even now his eyes hold no trace of fear.

"We will only grow strong again," Marcus informs him evenly. "The Resistance is an _idea,_ Coriolanus Snow. You can kill the followers, but the idea herself will never die."

Who is this man? I hate him. I admire him. He both thrills and terrifies me.

"No?" Snow asks mockingly. "Your Resistance is dead, Raelius, and all in vain. I know what you would plan, but to no avail. Your mole was also apprehended. An Assistant Gamemaker?" he spits in disgust. "A fat fool, more like. All these men," he gestures upwards with his eyes, "and _women_," he elucidates with relish, "they died for nothing, Raelius. _Nothing._ And now the turn is yours. But first know this," he beckons them to drag me closer. "This Tribute you would have saved? She is my informant."

For the first time he turns to me. Searches my face for the truth. I can't look at him. Won't look at him. I feel miserable and ashamed and wretched. _I'm not,_ I want to tell him. _It was an accident, I didn't mean to._ It's not the truth, but not a fully a lie either. Not minutes ago I became Snow's pawn. Didn't die when I had the chance. I'm Petra Angelovna, the Stone-heart, the Butcher's daughter. I've seen death, caused it, and I want to _live_.

Perhaps that's why I respect him, even now. After all he's done. The maddening crowd, the explosion…all the while he knew I would kill children to save myself. Far from balking, he encouraged it. Marcus Raelius knew I would do anything—anything!—to live, and still he tried to save me.

Snow doesn't kill him, but I watch him die all the same. Piece by piece the rebellion—the _Resistanc_e—in his eyes smolders and disappears into reality and resignation. There is nothing left for him here. Only death.

…and it is coming. Quickly.

"This man just chose his cause over his own brother. A brother, might I add, who has done everything in his power to save you." He informs my medic curtly. "I find such zeal to be both dangerous and disgusting. I believe you feel the same," Snow turns to me. "What should I do with him, Butcher? Torture him? Kill him? Torture _and_ kill him?"

But Marcus Raelius is silent, like a lamb that's ceased to struggle. I've never seen a man so broken.

"Just leave him alone," I whisper.

He smiles cruelly. "Why?"

He was kind to me. Ulterior motives, professionalism, fuck, I don't know. But Marcus Raelius was kind to me, and I remember. "Let him go."

But Snow senses something. He always does. "Don't be naïve, Butcher. You're not a woman he'd pay a second glance to. Don't throw away your chance for glory for him."

"Glory?" I ask him. "You call whorring out for you Capital pigs glory?"

"Careful, Butcher. I won't tolerate that insolence again." But he can't. He wouldn't. I'm the crowds' favorite, and he wants to sell my virginity. President Snow _wants_ me to win the Hunger Games. So he can talk, he can threaten, but he can't touch me. Not yet.

"What will you do? Rape me? Torture me? Kill me? Rape and torture _and_ kill me?" I mimick him. "It's what I have to look forward to anyways. Go fuck yourself."

His eyes narrow. I should know better than to bait him, but Marcus Raelius' courage has emboldened me.

"I have warned you, Petra Angelovna."

He has my answer, and my disgust. "Fuck you."

"Guards, this Tribute's insolence has grown unbearable. I believe she must be punished…" he searches my face in that pause, just to see my rising fear. He smiles, not a trace of humor in his eyes. A bubble of blood spurts down his chin, and I feel a sick rising in my stomach that has nothing to do with _Gorzalka._

"Give her to the barracks," Snow finally decides. "Spare her virginity, but use her in any other way you like."


	49. The Many

**The Many**

**AN: Trigger warning: this chapter is rated M for language, violence, sexual assault, and general Petra-badassery.**

* * *

><p>I have no insults, no pleas, no defiance, only instinct. "No."<p>

"You had your chance at mercy, Butcher," Snow tells me with disdain. "Now taste my vengeance. Your parents as well."

"Liar."

"Explain," he demands.

"You said they'd be the last resort." He also mentioned Mason. He's been through this before, I realize. He has nothing left to control her with…

…he's not afraid of her. He's too powerful for that. But she is an inconvenient annoyance. Like me. And sometimes the buzzing fly can be more a pest than the wolves that hunt you. I'm on dangerous ground, the ice above a raging river, with the cracks stretching both behind and before. Death lies in all directions, but in all my long life there is only one way I would ever willingly go: on.

"Killing them, yes," Panem's President reminds me. "But if your village were to burn, your father detained for questioning, and your mother forced to fend for herself…" he tilts his head, fascinated. "It may serve as a physical reminder. It appears you fail to be …_impressed_ with mere conversation alone."

"_Mudak_."

"I told you Panem needed you, Butcher," he glances past the smoldering corpses to the endless lines and light of the city below. "If you will not comply willingly, you will find she takes what she needs."

A rapist. Just like him. "Fuck you."

"Continue this infantile behavior, Butcher, and you may yet have that opportunity," he turns, regards me with the longsuffering pain of a wizened parent. "Now take her away. Return her when she has learned to be more compliant."

Barefoot. They're booted. I'd never make it to the stairs in time. No escape. Not from Snow. Not from the Colosseum. Not from the Capitol. Not from The Hunger Games, certainly not from what comes after. I'm Petra Angelovna, the Stone-heart. I survived starvation, the White Winter, Dmitri and that mob. I drove horses to their death and I shot a man. I want to live. I will live. Will live through the Hunger Games no matter what—or who—it takes. Snow could've killed me like all those others, yet needs me alive…

…so I will make them kill me first. I am Petra Angelovna, and I am no man's whore.

The stairs are too far. I can never escape…But the ledge is not. I tear away, wrench from their grasp, bare feet against stone and sand, heat and smoke blinding me, searing my skin, now stone under my fingers I _graspscrabbleclimb!_ onto that narrow brink, see one sickening swell of the spiraling city below…

And I—I—I almost do it. But I _can't. _

Armored arms seize me, wrench me down. Too late my resolve finds me, my courage returned, every sense screaming to wrest away, to flail again for the nothingness that awaits me below…

But they are too many. Too armored. Too strong. My blows bruise my skin, shatter my nails, but their shins, their groins, their stomachs and faces are slick and senseless. In all my struggling, they never feel a thing.

"NO!" I gnash my teeth, gag on spit and blood scream my throat raw as my chest sears. No avail. That's when I begin to cry. Fuck. _Blyad._ I fucking _cry_. Fat tears of frustration. And fear. Disgusting globs of snot drain from my nose, and I'm forced to swallow them, utterly wretched and sobbing. Death was the only other option, and I couldn't even make them kill me. I am a coward. A worthless, mewing coward. _This_ is why my sisters died. My mother sickened. Why Malcovitch and Holi and hundreds of others must be killed for sport. Will continue to be. Forever and ever, on and on. More like Finnick and Annie, like Johanna and her parents…and it will never stop. It will never, ever stop. Panem will churn on, grinding us down like bone to sow on a farmer's field until there is nothing left. We are weak, all of us too weak, and far, far too selfish.

So am I. Tears keep flowing, My aching throat threatens to choke me. Not in fear or sadness, but in shame. I am Petra Angelovna, my father's Stoneheart…yet I too am a coward, after all.

"Take her away," Snow finally orders. "I find the sight of her entirely unbearable."

"No," someone speaks. My tears stop flowing in shock at my savior.

Smoke and ash scatter from the remains of women and children. Skeletons on cross-beams continue to smolder. But in that silence, not a one of us dares to breathe.

Snow turns. "What, Raelius?"

"No," Marcus Raelius repeats hollowly, staring into the sand. Not once does he raise his eyes to mine. "Not the Tribute, Coriolanus. Punish me."

I can't breathe. Can't blink. Can only stand and stare stupidly as this man takes the punishment meant for me.

"Very well," Snow gestures to the guards. "Kill him."

I won't get involved. I can't get involved. I'm Petra Stoneheart: rock can't feel, rocks can't die.

* * *

><p><em>Get up. Defend yourself! Fight back, fight back, you coward—!<em> But I don't dare turn away, don't dare flinch, know I must watch, I will watch, as I kill the only Man I've ever met worthy of that name.

They don't spare him pain. No pity. No mercy. Not a single stroke falls against his skull. They bash the meaty parts, where no organs can rupture and speed his death. He never cries out, but with every blow he bleats a little through his bleeding lips, a sound so piteous it could break a heart of stone. Like little lambs in springtime, smelling for the first—and last—time the blood of their kin.

Aquilla's words come back to me: _There must be someone, somewhere, someone you've dreamt of, fantasized of… someone you foolishly love or loved. There always is. It matters not. I will find them, and when I do you will come to me and beg me take you instead. _

I've known Marcus Raelius for less than a day. _Pizda, Petra, what are you thinking?_

My body, or his life. I've known since I was a girl that women are raped. In some places in District 6 it's so common as to be expected. My ugliness, my strength, my size have saved me. All these years it's been so damned important, but now it seems such a stupid, selfish thing to ask a man like Marcus Raelius to die for. Marcus. His uncle. All those Libertas Peacekeepers…that Game Enforcer with her yellow skin and wide brown eyes. The Capitol citizens in the stands, all those crushed under tanks or mown down, men, women, and children alike. Malcovitch and Holi?

Do all of them deserve to die? Do any? And if so, why? Who makes it so? Suddenly the world is a much larger, much crueler and much stranger place than a girl from District 6 could ever comprehend. It's dizzying and sickening and I feel I need to retch all over again. Those Libertas Peacekeepers immolated for me, that unnamed woman bleeding out just to save me…all those people, their families, their children…they risked it all, sacrificed their lives, their loved ones' lives, and all for strangers.

…all for _Panem_.

And for the first time in eighteen self-centered years, the sudden sensation that _I _don't matter. Not really. Not ever. None of us do. The only thing that matters is President Snow and the Tributes he's murdered...and the men who might defeat him. Men like Marcus Raelius.

Even helpless and stricken, overpowered and imprisoned, like Tasha Pushkina, he grows giant in my eyes, no longer a Man, but something More.

Panem needs Marcus Raelius, his genius and his courage. He's a medic and a soldier. Libertas' leader. Hero of the Resistance…and I know what I must do.

_Bl'yad._ Fuck. Hell. I'm only Petra Angelovna, the Butcher's daughter. A girl from District 6. Ugly, insignificant, unimportant. No one needs me.

No one has ever needed me. No one ever will.

…No one but the little boy back in my bed, waiting for me to kill him. Panem doesn't need him either.

Just this morning Tasha Pushkina said I wasn't a woman yet. For the first time today, I know her to be wrong.

I sniff. Wipe my face. Dry my eyes. I turn to Snow. "Leave him alone."

The corner of his mouth curls upwards in cruelty. "Ask."

"_Please_," I choke.

"Beg."

"I'll do anything," I plead, and for the first time he hears my sincerity. "_Anything._ Just let him go."

He stares at me in silence, the night punctuated by the Peacekeeper's blows and Marcus' muffled moans.

Somehow I know what his answer will be. His lecherous smile leaks drops of rotting blood. He nods to the Peacekeepers, and gestures to the ground in front of him. "_Kneel_."

I am released. The stone is cold beneath my knees.

"Petra, Petra, I called your bluff," Snow crones, forcing my face to that shaggy ugliness spreading between his legs. My neck is rigid. I smell the stink of his sweat, piss and shit, shudder in the stench of rotting _blood_. He slicks the hair from my tearing eyes as his skin meets mine. "You see, my dear Butcher, everyone has a breaking point," he whispers.

"_Even you_."

* * *

><p>My name is Petra Angelovna. I am about to die.<p>

Snow strokes my hair, fingers of his other hand forcing my gagging mouth open. I jerk my chin at the last second, eyes to those Peacekeepers. "Now leave him alone—"

"Butcher, Butcher, Butcher," He leers, the hand in my hair yanking me back to face that horrid hunk of growing flesh. "You foolish girl. You don't learn from others' mistakes, do you?"

My heart heaves. Liar, I called him. He'll rape me and kill Marcus Raelius all the same.

My mouth goes slack. He means to enter me—

_Neither do you, mudak. _Then his left testicle bursts between my teeth like a rancid bite of spoiled _salo._

The sound of his scream is indescribable.


	50. The Standoff

Chaos. Mayhem. Panic.

My teeth snap shut, I wrench. Tear. Snow staggers back, bucking in shock, swearingscreamingscrabbling all at once and now I know—we all know—beyond certainty that this monster, this pretender, with all his polished words is only man in a wolfskin, nothing more.

His soldiers are toy soldiers, just like his stallions. Broken, spiritless, obedient, utterly incapable of independent thought. Just like Aquilla's, just like Crane's, they freeze at the sight of the impossible, mesmerized in their own failings. It's all the time I need.

I rise, spit blood, hair, and ragged flesh. Scrabble to the nearest, he raises his baton, too late—

I wrest it from his fingers like I would wrestle a ram by its horns. Bring his fist nearly to the ground, twist the metal from his strained wrist then bring it down against the nape of his neck like I'd stun a pig. Over and over and over I swing. He lies senseless. Their armor's too strong. Too protective. I can't _harm_ them…but I can still hurt them.

They rush to Snow, or stand, shell-shocked.

I run to Marcus.

Some move to stop me. Not fast enough.

I drop low, slide on my hip, feel sand and stone shear away my skin, grit my teeth and swing for the side and backs of their knees where the armor is weakest, know any animal, however fierce, however thick its hide, can be brought down once its legs are crippled. We humans are useless, lumbering, slow. We stand, balanced precariously on two small, spindly sticks. We're naked and hairless, clawless, toothless, limited by dark and no sense of smell. I've seen enough Hunger Games to know we make easy prey.

The two still bent over Marcus go easily enough. I slam the collar behind their helmets, send them spinning into the sand.

"Get up!" I yell, hoisting him up, one-handed. "Get up!"

But Marcus falls, groaning senselessly. _Blyad_. "_N'yet!_ GET UP!"

"Enough, Tribute!"

A spray of bullets pepper the sand at my feet. They cannot deter me. I'd rather be shot than raped to death.

"No! Bring her to me!" Snow snarls as he is dragged to his feet, bright red blood soaking from his groin. "Bring her to me _alive!_"

Marcus is curled, contorted, clutching at his broken hands and moaning. I know he doesn't have the strength to stand. There was never really any hope of escape, but there doesn't have to be. Snow can bleed and feel pain. He can be killed. It doesn't take an army or a formed resistance, only one ugly girl in her nightdress to take down their empire. There's dozens of soldiers here, and every single one of them saw his shame. Any one of them could choose to end it now, with one shot…

…but no one does.

It's not loyalty that holds them back. Then what—? Fear?

Slowly the Peacekeepers advance, and I feel their doubt in the slowness of their motions. I'm a Tribute, a child, a girl. Even after what I did to them, what I did to Snow—perhaps because of it—not a one of them wishes to harm me.

I drop the baton. Stand defiant. "You can rape me, you can kill me, but no matter what sick, disgusting things you or your men do to me or how much I scream they'll always remember me as the girl who bit your balls off."

So there.

"Not after I make an example out of you, Butcher," Snow wheezes.

His hot blood is still dripping down my chin. I spit a long, salty string. "You already have."

"Don't…" a hand clutches weakly at my leg. "D-don't goad him…"

Marcus Raelius is Capitol. He's intelligent, a Medic, he's leader of Libertas, and he can go fuck himself for all I care. It's not smart to antagonize Snow any further…but every second his attention is focused on me is another in which Marcus lives. And I—I did this for what? For him? Panem? I don't know. Already that split-second of realization is fading into doubt, shrunk to the smallest of embers. I have to act, act now, before my courage fails me again.

They grab my arms. Drag me forward. But gently. These men—and women—even anonymous and helmeted I know they do not wish to hurt me.

"You do not realize what is at stake. You cannot. This nation cannot abide internal dissent. It will not _survive_ it. Do you understand?" Snow demands, still doubled in agony.

"I understand: you're a rapist _slovoc_ who treats people like shit."

His Peacekeepers remain still and silent.

"The Districts are vital. Essential. If you destroy the Games, Petra Angelovna—if you destroy me—then Panem will fall. And _quickly_. Your mother, your father…entire Districts would vanish overnight—you were outraged tonight, Petra Angelovna, by the deaths of a few dozen," he reminds me. "Shouldn't the death of hundreds of men, women and children at the hands of these so-called Resistance cells outrage you more? Shouldn't the threat to millions of Panem's citizens set your conscience in torment?"

Damn him. Damn them both. I didn't ask to be Reaped. I'm an ugly, uneducated girl from District 6. The minds of both these educated men are far above me. I did this for Marcus. For Malcovitch. For Mason and her parents, Odair and Annie Cresta…and only seconds later I still struggle to understand _why_.

"You're cruel," I finally decide. "So don't even pretend to feel guilty about killing."

"Killing is, at times, a necessary evil," Snow pants. "You know this."

He's right, damnit. But— "You tortured those people."

"Those specifically selected people, yes," Snow says without a trace of apology or relish. "I find excesses to be a deterrent to further anarchy—whether physical violence, or psychological, as demonstrated tonight."

Psychological? I don't know that word. But the earnestness in his eyes is clear. He means me. He means—"You mean _rape._"

"Only because you are not afraid of pain." Moments ago he had me on my knees. His dismissive tone disgusts me.

"Don't tell me you weren't going to enjoy that, Snow. Don't tell me Johanna Mason's never had to do the same damn thing, to you and the rest of the Senators that fancied a fuck. You use women—_pizda_, you use _little boys_—!" I remember Aquilla's threat to Malcovitch with renewed fury, "—on a sick whim."

"I could kill you now," he reminds me. "_Should_ kill you now. Yet you could be useful to me, useful to Panem, Butcher, even now."

President Coriolanus Snow is the most powerful man in Panem. He could've had me killed a dozen times already tonight…yet he hasn't. He needs me, I realize. No, he…_wants _me? I find myself staring into a familiar face, a face not unlike Marcus', the weary grey skin and lines of a man with few friends. A man who craves not admiration but understanding. Agreement. Acceptance. I'm shocked. Repulsed. Saddened. I'm an ugly, uneducated girl from the Districts and he's the President of Panem.

…and we're the same. We're both alone. Snow doesn't just want to make me his pawn, but his _ally._

_Why—?_

"Come, let us reason, " he seduces me. "We're more alike than you realize, Butcher. You have done what you must—whatever you must—to protect that which you value most. Panem needs such resourcefulness, such audacity. Come, shall we set aside our differences? Shall we go our separate ways as partners and equals?" he croons. "Or must we part tonight with you as a prisoner?"

Since being dragged from bed I've assaulted five men, one a Senator, two of them Gamemakers, the fifth the President. I've insulted many more. I am Petra Angelovna, Tribute for the 74th Hunger Games, and I am the People's favorite, the Ugly Girl who went back for her District partner, the Butcher who drew blood, the Driver of Horses. If this is the protective influence of a Tribute, I can't imagine how much power a Victor holds.

…So this is why he needs me. I am Petra Angelovna, and he is _afraid._ Snow is Panem's President. A Victor is God. The rich may think they own them, but it is for the Hunger Games that crazed crowd this morning died. Not ideas. Not revolution. Not resistance, but _entertainment_.

"Yeah. Sure. We can be partners. Your balls and my virginity can keep each other company."

I hear Marcus' sharp intake of breath, while the Peacekeeper holding my right arm gives a strangled chortle.

Snow sees. He always does. "You find the Tribute's insolence amusing, do you, soldier?"

"No, Excellency."

"Indeed. Did you not laugh?"

It's a trap. Answering yes is admitting to treason, and answering no would be a lie. I'm new at Snow's game but even I can taste the sickly sweet stench of death in his tone, like his parting words to Aquila. The Peacekeeper—this man, standing next to me, touching me, even—is about to die.

"I await your answer," Snow says curtly.

"No, Excellency."

"Indeed?" he sneers. "Release her. Remove your helmet, and present arms."

The reflective helmet sweeps back, revealing his face. He takes the pistol from his hip, knees, offers it to Snow. There's a slick sheen of sweat beading across his brow, but his hands never shake.

_Why did you laugh, _durak? _Did you think it was funny? Were you just caught off guard? Or do you agree—?_

"Liars and traitors," Snow hisses, with the barrel of that weapon trained on the soldier's stoic face. "Two things I cannot abide. You make no plea for this man's life, Butcher?" his cool gaze is leveled at me. "Nor you, Raelius?"

"No."

"No?" Snow asks. "Elaborate."

"Not for you."

"Not for me, no," he continues, circling us. "But for certain…other parties," his foot finds Marcus' face with a gentle caress. "And you, Raelius? Tell her. Explain to poor Petra Angelovna why you won't save him."

"She's…already…familiar with that fact, Coriolanus," he manages to gasp. "So let us go, or…kill us."

"I said, _explain_," Snow's sandaled foot finds his broken ribs. And _digs._

Marcus Raelius lets out a wracked scream, every wrinkle on his face etched into stark contrast under his tears. I can count every one of his friendless years.

Snow is armed, now. We're outnumbered. No hope of escape. There never really was…but all my attempts to distract him from Marcus have failed. No point in begging for mercy—no man would make that mistake twice. The baton lies between my feet, but a bullet would pierce me before I could ever hope to grasp it.

Snow wants me. Craves my attention and understanding. Desires an ally, not only a pawn…

Klerkov's words: You must fool the world into seeing you f_or what you really are._

What am I to Snow? Who? If I act, if I deliberate then I am lost. I must be and simply be…

"Tell me," I say. "You were willing to send Cinna to his death. So you owe it to me."

"He is but one man of questionable allegiance, and is thus statistically irrelevant when the fate and freedom of millions is at stake," Marcus pants, as dust clings to his lashes.

Snow chuckles. "Hear him, Petra Angelovna. The noble and compassionate leader of your Libertas allies! The so-called Resistance. Resistance? Against what? Tell me, Petra Angelovna, are we not more _alike_ than dissimilar? And yet he a hero, and I a tyrant," he concludes bitterly.

He's right, damn him. _Bl'yad._ "I've been in the Capitol one day," I finally state. "I'd hardly know."

"Yet already it appears you have decided," Snow counters.

"So have you."

He nods, that cold, calculating smile again on his face. "So it would seem. Yet my hand has stayed. Why?"

Not mercy. Never mercy. "You're toying with me. With all of us."

"No, no, Petra," he tuts. "You must do better than that. You've missed something obvious, Think. Truly Think."

Clotted blood. A sweating soldier. Marcus sprawled like a dead man. That woman with her yellow skin and graying lips…all of them have died for me. I didn't ask you, didn't want you to, it's not my fault, yet I still fee guilty. I miss my father and mother, miss Tasha and Klerkov, hope Malcovitch dies at the mines before the Games even begin…

I'm an ugly, uneducated girl from 6. Yet the President of Panem values my intelligence. Even Marcus said I might have been a genius…and the only thing between us and death tonight is entertaining Snow. Every second lived is a second earned.

I grit my teeth. "It wouldn't serve any purpose to punish him without punishing me."

"Exactly."

The butt of the pistol finds my cheek. Blinds me. I feel a tooth dislodge. I am not Marcus Raelius. I do not take this pain lightly.

_Ch'yortbl'yadpizdavsezayebalopizdetsnakhuibl'yad! _

I scream until my voice breaks, throat raw and ragged. Scream for my _papa_ though he's a thousand miles away. I writhe in the sand, sobbing, and when the stinging stops and my sight returns there's blood on my hands, and a flap of flesh the size of a steak peeling from my face. Each heartbeat is a stab to my skull. "_Bl'yad. B'lyad. Fuck!_" I shout, burning eyes clenched shut.

There's a shot, the soft tumble of a body next to mine and I know without looking that that insubordinate soldier lies dead beside me. "I am wearied of my indulgence," Snow states. "Observe."

I open my eyes. _It's meat, only meat, we're meat and nothing more…_

"What do you feel?" Snow prods.

"Pain." _Mudak_.

"For him," he insists. "Anger? Sadness? Guilt? ...nothing?"

"I didn't know him. It's your fault if you can't hire some soldiers with discipline."

"The She-Bear snarls," Snow drawls, placing gentle traction against the shredded skin on my face with the tip of that gun. "But you didn't answer my question, Petra Angelovna. What do you feel?"

"Yes! Fuck!" I thrash. "Okay? Yes! All of it! _Bl'yad!_"

"And do you truly find him, then, to be 'statistically irrelevant'?"

Marcus Raelius blanches.

Yes. And No. I don't matter. Malcovitch doesn't matter. None of us do. The important ones are the men like Marcus, his Uncle and Snow and the war between them. And yet…yet I want to live. And that man, that Peacekeeper, all the Resistance here tonight, their families, their children, do they not matter? Did their deaths mean nothing? Does that mean their lives—our lives—mean nothing, too?

…and if that's true, then for the first time I understand the Hunger Games.

Snow has made me question. So much. Yet it is not enough. I cradle the flesh back onto my cheek, seek the only consolation left me after my father butchered poor little Lily: "You're still the one that killed him."

"Very well. You leave me little choice," Snow stands, resigned. "I have alerted Gamemaker Crane that his face has been avenged. And now…now, Petra Angelova, this pain will become more _personal._"

His foot finds my shoulder. Rolls me moaning to my back.

"You try to rape me, Snow, I'll bite your fucking cock off," I still manage to mutter.

"No," he assures me. "Nothing so vulgar."

He places one heel against my breast. And _digs._

It collapses. I feel his foot grate into my ribs. I gasp. Clench. _Can't breathe—!_

"Leave her alone!" Marcus rasps.

"Or you'll what, Raelius?" Snow sneers. "Your threats are futile."

"Look at you. Look at all of you!" he cries. "Armed men with guns, picking on a little girl! You're pathetic!"

"A little girl?" Snow asks icily, and that pressure, that pain that unbearable pain finally relents, and for the slightest second I will it all away, let Marcus take the pain, the punishment, it's just too much, just too much…

"Is that what you see?" I hear Marcus' fingers crunch as Snow stomps down, hard.

He lets out a sob of pain and rage, and my courage comes back to me. _Pizda,_ Marcus. You're intelligent. You're more important than a simple Tribute, you're the only one who's not irrelevant. Think, _mudak_, think!

"You're the pathetic one, Raelius," President Snow taunts him with a swift kick to his ribs. "Know this: you couldn't protect a woman if you tried."

DISTRACT HIM. Despite the pain, whatever the costs. And it nearly costs me everything. "LEAVE HIM ALONE, YOU BALLLESS FREAK!"

"Oh, Petra, Petra, my Petra," he circles me like a vulture in flight. "You are so easily replaced. You should be more careful."

"You're wrong, Snow," I pant, each word like fire to my face and chest, fingers pressing that gaping flesh back in place. "You can't replace me. Ugly butcher's daughters are a bit of a rarity here in the Capitol, thanks to your enhancements and surgeries. You might be able to pay an actress, pay off my parents, pay off my Mentor and Escort but you'll never get away with it. You said it yourself: the people love me. And they'll know."

"Is that what you think?" he muses. Snaps his fingers. "Bring me the girl."

_…Ch'yort._

She's been standing shrouded in the shadows the entire time.

"Come now Pettra," Snow gestures her forward silkily. "What do you have to say?

"I'm Petra Angelovna," her voice is mine, down to the hitching breath. "You're wrong, Snow. You can't replace me. Ugly butcher's daughters are a bit of a rarity here in the Capitol, thanks to your genetic enhancements and surgeries. YOu might be able to pay an actress, pay off my parents, pay off my Mentor, Escort, Stylist and Trainer and their helpers but you'll never get away with it. The people love me. And they'll know."

I am aghast.

"Did you really think, Butcher, that I would leave something so important to mere chance or circumstance? That I could not contrive my own design to use you despite your refusal? Did I not say to you, truly, that Panem needs you, and would take what she needed with or without your consent."

"H-h-how—?"

"We've recorded your every move. Every conversation. Every _word_," he boasts. "Pettra can pass for you anywhere in Panem."

I have to think. Fast. Faster than I have ever done… "Is Pettra there willing to face the Arena in my stead?"

"Is Pettra there wiling to face the Arena in my stead?" she asks me earnestly.

"Shut up, _suka,_ I'm warning you."

"Shut up, _suka,_ I'm warning you."

"You're a _khui_-sucking capital _durak_. You should've let him take your tongue...or does he find it useful in more ways than one?"

"You're a _khui-_sucking capital _durak,_" she echoes perfectly. "You should've let him take your tongue…or does he find it useful in more ways than one?" And the answer in her dull eyes is _yes._

"Pettra is willing to do whatever I tell her. She is afforded good keep, and gets to see her precious rebel family again. She will perform any task I require, and has learned to do so with enthusiasm," his smile becomes grotesque.

Marcus lets out a bitter laugh. "And when she wins the Games you've rigged for her, she'll turn into a Capitol loyalist and you'll use her sway over the crowd to quash the Resistance. You'll have to be more creative, Coriolanus. You're growing too predictable."

"Resistance?" Snow corrects him. "The _Rebellion._ If I let you continue in this fallacy, Raelius, there's something you have yet to learn: if you want to win the people, you have to _reach_ them first. One right word, one well-released tidbit or video…one untimely assassination of a Senator…you have to strike fear, Raelius. So subtly they don't know they're being manipulated. But the art of subtlety was never your specialty, was it?"

He doesn't need me anymore. He'll kill me. Kill Marcus. That's it. We're both fucked, and Panem with us. But President Snow just made a fatal mistake: he backed me into a corner. Even the smallest of animals can prove lethal once in a trap. I have nothing left to lose by doing something absolutely crazy. He can only kill me if he still has _her._

She's his ace. His betting horse…and he's played his hand too soon.

_She's just like you, _mudillo_. She doesn't want this, it's not her fault…_

_Given the choice helping Snow or hurting him and damn the consequences, she chose to become his bitch._

_That's not fair, you made the same decision yourself._

I shake my head. Can't afford to see her as human. "There's a flaw in your plan," I force myself to say. "And you're too blind to see it."

"Oh, do tell."

"It's something obvious," I parrot his words, still clutching my face. "Think, Snow. Truly. Think."

My head is battered and bloodied, and Pettra has curves and breasts were I do not…but I've seen enough Victors transform within hours from starvation in the ring to plump, luscious beauty that the Capitol's tricks and Stylists could easily explain.

"Bring her!" Snow commands. I am lurched forward onto my feet. We are stood side by side. We're of height, yet she more comely. She's pale, shaking with fear like a wind-tossed leaf. I understand, then: tonight has been a test for her as much as I.

The soldiers stare long. "Identical," they finally say.

"Is that what you see?" I taunt him as he taunted Marcus. "Look again."

"My dear Butcher, you're bluffing."

"Am I?" I ask. "Two words: Holli Carnegie."

He cocks his head, intrigue then sudden understanding making his cold smile turn to dread.

"Stop her—!"

Too late. I kick her knee. Hard. Like I would a bucking bull. I feel the ligaments pop and bones shatter underneath my toes. She lies screaming on the ground, right leg twisted grotesquely, blood and bare yellow bone poking sharply from the inside of her shattered shin. Marcus looks sick. Marcus looks fucking _petrified._

"It appears Pettra has a broken leg," I tell him. "May the odds be ever in her favor." Then the anger and mad elation of that chariot ride hit me all at once: I laugh.

Pettra laughs.

The guards begin to laugh.

Marcus tries to smile, but fails.

President Snow chuckles even.

"You're a fool, Petra Angelovna," Snow laments, like a long-suffering parent. "We are all liars here, and have the played the Game far longer than you. The Crowd's favorite can always be killed from within the Games. You've done nothing now but doom both of you to death."

"You'll still be the one who killed her," I remind him. "Not the Alliance. Not me."

"Execute them," he orders, as Pettra begins to sob anew. "Not _her._ The Alliance can do the rest."

And that's it. I'm done. I've gambled with the Devil, came so close…but I lost.

But something stirs in the back of my mind, silent yet so insistent, something like—

Something like _Xavier Malcovtich_. The Crowd's favorite can always be killed from within the Games, Snow said. But not before. Never before. I went back for Xavier Malcovitch, and the Capital shit their pants. That's my story. My key. That's who I am.

…_and no one knows it better than Cry-baby._

"You think it'll be that easy?" I shout. "You've forgotten something. Something very important, Snow. But go ahead. Kill me. I'd love to see your entire Capitol fall because you're too blind to notice—!"

"Notice what, Butcher?"

"That you've forgotten."

"Forgotten what?"

"Forgotten _who_," I correct.

"My dear Butcher, you're stalling," Snow hisses. "Only this time, you have nothing left to bargain with. Execute them."

"Execute me, you'll execute yourselves," I address the Peacekeepers for the first time this evening. "And your families. Are they 'statistically irrelevant' to you? You kill me and you kill everything you love and hold dear in this sick city. I promise you. It'll be gone by sunrise."

That gets their attention.

"Execute them! Execute them now!" Snow roars. But his guard only raise their weapons half-heartedly to shoulder in the flickering torchlight. They've seen what their leader is capable of. Seen one of their own gunned down like a dog. The air is still permeated with the scent of burning flesh, the night still echoing faintly from their screams. He'll execute them, same as he did those rebels, and never even blink about it.

…but on the same token, what if I'm right? What the hell will the Resistance do to them, and _their families and loved ones_, if it gains power with the knowledge of what they've done in Snow's name? They remember the mob today, same as me. And it _terrifies _them.

He strikes me. I fall. My head hits stone and the world spins, human torches whirl above me and a blade passes beneath my eye…

Snow places a foot against my throat. Presses. I gasp.

"Petra—!" I hear Marcus cry.

"You. You are truly magnificent," he informs me, a trace of remorse and disgust mingling in his look. "You will simply not give up. But Panem cannot abide your insolence, however amusing I may find it, and however intelligent you may seem."

"Y-you said there were few rarer pleasures th-than the unknown," I manage to whine. "D-don't you at least want to know—?"

"No, no, my dear. You've done well. Too well, in fact. And death is the greatest unknown. I fear my riddle beats yours, indeed if it does exist."

"Looks like we'll both get to solve it tonight, then," I choke.

"Forgive me, if I doubt."

"You're not even going to guess?"

"Why guess, Butcher, when I can just as easily level this gun at the head of your companion, a companion you would sacrifice anything for?"

"Because I can't trust you now," I nod up to the bloody stain on his robes. "And besides, it doesn't matter if you kill Marcus or not," I breathe. "If you kill me tonight, he wins."

"Then let us test this hypothesis of yours. I believe you are bluffing, you assure me you are not. Very well," he addresses the Peacekeepers. "Hurt him."

They do.

Marcus matters. I do not. But if he dies, no one in Panem will remember him. Libertas and the Resistance may limp on, or may well be rounded up and executed this very night…but if Snow kills me, he'll die himself, and the Capitol with him. No more Hunger Games. No more starvation. No more little boys like Xavier Malcovitch, no more children forced to fight to the death or whore themselves out to survive…

I am Petra Angelovna. My father's Stone-heart, and I want to live.

…but even I could die for something as great as that.

_I'm sorry, Marcus. I'm so sorry, Lily. I'm sorry when it mattered most I couldn't protect you. _Marcus has gone silent, a welcome mercy from his screams…but over the pounding in my ears I hear him breathing. It's not too late. Not yet—

"Any last words, Butcher? Ordinarily I'd have the Peacekeepers torture you. Rape you. Kill you. But the second has them feeling nauseous right now. You are ugly, Petra Angelovna, ugly and unloved. Know that you get to die a virgin only because you are so singularly disgusting no man will touch you."

No. He would have always killed me himself. Because the regret in his eyes, the respect, the waste…for both Marcus and myself, is real. I've seen it before in my father's weathered face.

Regret. I know regret. I can use her.

"Malcovitch," I whisper. It's an apology, nearly a prayer—

"What?"

"Malcovitch," I cough again, fingers scrabbling against his soles. "You forgot about Malcovitch."

"Good Games, then. Are the rumors true?" Snow presses harder. My eyes begin to bulge. "Have you really been so desperate as to be molesting that idiot child?"

His leering voice comes as though through fog and sleet. "You. For. Got. Mal. Covitch."

"Xavier Malcovitch is no threat to me," Snow deliberates, remembering my mention of Holli. "The only danger that imbecile poses is to himself. How long do you suppose he'll last in the Games without your protection? Do you think the Careers will kill him quickly, or will the Alliance prolong his agony to gain the attention of their Sponsors?"

"Wrong," I choke. "Xavier Malcovitch…most dangerous person…Panem…now..."

"Really?" he leans down to mock me. "Pardon me if I doubt you, dear Petra."

"Leave Marcus alive," I whisper. "I'll tell you what you need to know."

"I have heard enough, Petra Angelovna," his voice holds the sincerity of an apology. "I fear I have indulged you for far too long…so as you say in 6, _do svidaniya_."

"He's too stupid to understand a bribe or threat!" even as my vision dims I see his eyes sharpen.

But it's not until everything's gone black that I'm able to gasp. I cough. Choke. Retch. Clutch my throat, my face, drink in smoke-stained air as though sweet and newly blown from the mountain tops, never breathed before. I gulp it down greedily despite the pain, like a suckling pig snouting at its mother's teat.

I drag myself to Marcus. Still breathing. And his heart pumps weakly in his chest. I roll him slowly to his side, every motion of my arm an agony.

Snow watches, hawk-like. "I'm waiting."

"You can't buy his silence," I state, "Xavier Malcovitch is incapable of understanding pretend. He's got…'societal mental retardation'—just ask Marcus! _He. Can't. Lie._"

His gaze turns wary.

"You can buy my parents, my Mentor and my Escort. You might even fool them. But ask yourself, Snow, _can you fool Xavier Malcovitch?_ Are you clever enough to fool the foolish? Because if you're not, if Xavier Malcovitch knows you're bluffing, he'll have no choice but to tell the world. And who do you think they'll believe? Her?" I gesture to that cringing doppelganger crying over her ruined leg, "or the little boy who screams?"

Doubt kindles in his eyes.

"And if you arrange for some kind of tragedy, lose two Tributes to 'the Resistance'…after the mob, the shootings, the bomb…people aren't going to be blaming some resistance movement, they'll be blaming you. You've already covered it all up, focused the media on us instead, so won't that just make the people angry at your inability to protect us? To protect _them_?" I ask.

The doubt in his eyes is now a brushfire, threatening to seep through the mountains and forest, devouring who it will.

"You said it yourself, Snow. People don't like liars…and Panem _cannot abide_ to find out you're one of them."

I count the slow seconds as his jaw shifts. That fire has become an inferno. He knows.

"The crowd is fickle, Snow. And _dangerous," _I emphasize. "I'm their favorite. So ask yourself, are you feeling clever, bastard? Are you?"

But he didn't get to be President by backing down easily. He must be seen—he must _always_ be seen—to have the last word. Even here. In front of the assembled Peacekeepers, the idea to spare us must come from him. "Xavier Malcovitch can be replaced."

"Xavier Malcovitch is irreplaceable." I reply. "Apparently there's a lack of retarded boys here in the Capitol," my hand tightens on Marcus' sleeping shoulder. "You lot seem to be in the poor habit of culling them."

"Xavier Malcovitch is replaceable, I assure you," Snow counters. "You all are. You're nothing but pawns in my Games. My Hunger Games, Butcher. I'm afraid this spider's web is too complex for you to unravel."

I brush the hair from Marcus' dark face. "The web will fall when the crowd kills you, Snow. Fuck the web. Down with the spider."

It's too bold. Too brash. But Snow could never accept my surrender. I survive because I alone can entertain.

"Say another word, Butcher, and I'll change my mind about raping you."

"Go ahead," I spread my legs. "I've been waiting since I was thirteen for a man to want this."

We stare. And if I blink, if I falter, if I fail, then all will come to ruin.

Embers. Ash. Sand. Blood. My heart, my breath, Snow's penetrating gaze. Then—

Snow laughs. He genuinely _laughs_. Tears of mirth fall unbidden down his face, falling faster and faster until he can no longer fight them away. But there's a dark and deadly glint in his eyes, that begrudging respect a shepherd sings when speaking of the cunning wolf who continues to raid his hold. A wolf—_his _wolf, he brags of her to his neighbors, friends and rivals—who must still be killed. And he will hunt her, kill her, and mount her pelt for the world to know he has conquered. Snow is the loneliest man above an evil empire, and all that stands between us now is this black humor. He could kill us all here tonight, forget his humiliation…or repay it a thousand-fold for all of Panem to see. These soldiers will live to have no doubt that although the Gods can bleed, they can't be killed. And their wrath will be terrible to behold.

I am allowed to live—Marcus, the Peacekeepers, we are all allowed to live—on a whim. "Oh, Petra. Petra, Petra, my Petra," Snow wipes his tearing eyes. "What am I to do with you? You are ever so amusing, but I am afraid I must kill you."

He claps his hands. "Return the whore to her cell. And the wretch to her bedchambers…I hear this year's Hunger Games might just be the deadliest yet."

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Forget Princesses. Let's start a self-saving peasant trope, okay?<strong>


	51. The Interlude

Marcus lets out a moan. His lashes flit open, green-gold eyes dull with pain. "Wh—" he struggles to raise his head.

"You're alive," I lay his head back down gently, glancing to the trickling line of Peacekeepers disappearing down the steps. "We both are."

"He is awake, then?" Snow approaches us.

There is no advantage in lying. "Yes."

"Well then. It appears your efforts were not in vain, and Panem is once again safe," the tone is sincere, but his eyes are mocking. "But this new friendship, Petra Angelovna, it comes at great cost."

"You know I know," I snort.

"Indeed," he nods. "And may perhaps will come to rue."

My face and chest bear welts and whip marks. My right cheek hangs like a poorly cut loin, still clinging to bone. But Marcus Raelius is alive. I don't matter. Pain doesn't matter: he does. "Perhaps."

"Come," Snow dismisses me as I shelter Marcus against his advance. "I would speak with him."

"This hurts like hell," I gesture with my chin. "But I could still bite you."

"Nothing of the sort," Snow assures me, kneeling down on one knee. "I have merely come to congratulate you, Marcus Raelius. Gamemaster Crane has just informed me of your imminent promotion. By this time tomorrow, you'll be chief Medic aboard the Games chopper…" his voice trails off. "What an honor."

A promotion—? But—?

"I don't understand," I look bewilderedly between them.

Marcus rolls. Represses a sob.

Snow rises. "Tell her."

"It's p-punishment!" he gasps. "M-making me Games Medic. I w-wanted District 12, I asked for District 12 I b-begged for D-District 12 but Snow gave me this instead!"

"Farewell then, Petra Angelovna," the most powerful man in Panem bows his head gravely. "I fear we will not speak again."

And suddenly we're alone.

Marcus Raelius cries. Really, actually cries. Openly. In pain. Exhaustion. Fear. For ideas and people I can't ever hope to understand. I've…I've never been good with other people. Haven't seen a man weep since my sisters died, when my father's eyes and hands ran red carving a grave for them beneath the bitter, frozen ground. I couldn't comfort my father or Holli. Don't know how to comfort him. Don't know if I want to, don't know if I should. Libertas made those bombs, killed all those people, and Marcus was willing to let his own brother die…

_He saved you, _durak_. Do something! Say something!_

But Marcus Raelius is a great Man. Just like Snow. One good deed isn't enough to absolve him.

"What did you do?" he cries out in accusation. "_What did you do!_"

"He was going to kill me now or later," I return. "I gambled with the devil and I won."

"There is no winning," Marcus weeps. "Not with Snow. Shouldn't've, shouldn't've—"

"Tried to save you?" I snort. "I could say the same." A blind anger takes me. I press against his bruised and broken ribs, elicit a shriek. I am satisfied. Pull away. "That was for Cinna," I tell him. "And you're a bastard, you know that?"

"You risked yourself and family for Panem tonight, Petra Angelovna," he struggles to say. "Why should my sacrifice be any different?"

"Damn you people!" I throw a fistful of ash and sand at him. "I'm done thinking for tonight, you hear? Done! Somebody so much as asks me one more question and I'll punch their fucking teeth in!"

"Here," Marcus pants, holding out a quaking fist. "…yours."

My tooth. When Snow first hit me. I lick the blood from the socket in sudden recognition. "Um. Thanks."

"Ordinarily I would offer," he whispers, clutching one wrist in the other, "but it appears my phalanges and meta—"

"You've got broken hands, _mudillo._ I get it." I suck the long roots clear. Spit the grit and sand. Use one shaking hand to hold the skin of my cheek and mouth up, the other to jam it in.

Snick. Squelch. _Shit. _"Pizda!"

"You're quite the expert," his broken lips whisper.

"You think that's the first time I've lost a tooth in a fight?" My father taught me never to aim for the face, but my tormenters didn't always get the same advice. Too many bones. You'll break your hand, fingers, wrist…and if you get bit? Bites are nasty. Especially the human kind. Some drunk from our village died just this year after raping a girl. He left her pregnant, but in the end he was the one who got fucked. My father amputated the hand in the kill shack, green and black and full of pus, but it was too late. There were still three days of screaming for all the village to hear. My mother said it would be more merciful if we would give him vodka so he could die.

…my father said he didn't deserve our mercy. That girl—and I—agreed.

"So what now?" I finally insist.

"You'll require a skilled surgeon," he attempts to raise to his arm, his lean body wracked with pain. "Antibiotics, and blood born pathogen screening."

"And you?"

"Likely extensive surgery and prolonged recooperation."

"No, I mean, right now." I explain. "How do we get down? Is my Escort coming for us or what?"

"That I very much doubt, Petra Angelovna, though you'll have a Peacekeeping force looking out for you, surely," he collapses back into the sand. "I suppose you can still walk?"

"That doesn't help. Not both of us."

"You'll need to get back. The hotel…can you remember where it was?"

I stand. Look out across the horizon. Here the stars are both strange and muted, and the sun has set. The lines and lights stretch on in a myriad of colors and confusion, but my eyes make out the familiar shape. "There."

"Good," he pants, once again prone. "Now this is important, Petra Angelovna. You'll, you'll have to travel through the sewers. The network is extensive, but the first levels are well laid and largely free of both policing and muttations. The tunneling will not follow the streets exactly, so you must resurface to ensure your course. The distance…the distance is less than five kilometers. You should make it well before dawn."

"I can't use the roads?" there's a strange sensation growing in my churning stomach. "Why?"

"Not safe," his green eyes have shut, and his neck is taut, bracing against the pain.

"Why not?"

"Teenagers," he struggles just to breathe. "In cars. Chase you down."

That knot in my stomach tears through my intestines. "Why?" I ask, appalled.

"The Hunger Games," his split lips spit. "They think it's fun."

A tear falls from my eye. Lands stinging against that raw flesh. "Fuck it!" I snarl, unable to wipe the salt away.

"There will be grates in the streets," he continues stoically. "Wait for traffic to subside. Open them by turning the pegs to the right. You'll repeat the same process from underneath to monitor your progress."

"You're not coming with me?"

"In my current condition I would only serve to slow you down."

"Damnit, Marcus, this isn't the Hunger Games!" I hiss, knowing Snow and Pettra are listening, even now. "I'm not leaving you here."

He attempts a smile at my stubbornness. "You can't very well take me with you."

"I said I'm not leaving you here, damnit!"

"Then I fear, Petra Angelovna, that we are again at an impasse."

"Can you stand?" I press. "On either foot at all?"

He shakes his dark head, green eyes closed tightly. Concludes the argument: "You can't carry me, Petra Angelovna."

..._Mudak_. He thinks he's won. "You don't know anything, do you?" I place my hands on my hips. "I once carried a hundred kilo boar pig through knee deep mud. I can catch and castrate more rams per minute than any man I know. I stood down Snow and I _saved your fucking life_. So don't tell me what I can and can't do, Marcus Raelius, and I won't tell you to fuck yourself."

"Semantics is hardly my area of expertise," Marcus pants, "but I believe you already have."

I don't recognize half the words he uses, but the message is pretty clear. "Don't be a _mudillo," _I snap, kneeling and placing elbows under his armpits. "Now help me."

I pull him up, nearly seated, when he slumps backward in shock. _Pizda_.

"You're worse than Cry-baby, you know that?" I say as he flits to.

"I've lost too much blood," he gasps, lips a pale grey and gold-flecked eyes unfocused. "Petra, this isn't going to work,"

"You're a medic, not a baby, damnit," I hoist him to his feet, his weight over my right shoulder and hanging head now even with his heart. "Now you're going to _walk, _Marcus Raelius, or Games help me I will _push you down the fucking stairs."_


End file.
